Before I Go

Chapter 27- Bad Days

Warning: This chapter contains cutting. Reader discretion is advised.

Today is a bad day. And not just a singular bad day... Not even the first in a series of bad days. I currently find myself smack dab in the middle of several consecutive bad days, likely with more subsequent ones to follow, unsure how to continue life without receiving some sort of slight reprieve. My mind has been entirely overwhelmed, I haven't eaten anything in what's likely to be days, and I just feel... not good? I'm obviously unwell; I can tell by my ghostly reflection in the mirror. My parents had been totally right to be so worried about me the other day. And I... holy crap, I lied right to their faces. I don't... I don't even know what the heck is going on with me lately. Maybe everything is just catching up to me. The rumors and the stress and the constant overthinking and... well, everything.

And on top of all that, I can't stop thinking about Parker--he legitimately told me he likes me.

And called me "his girl."

My head is swirling with questions and what-ifs. Did Parker really mean it? Does he want me to be his girlfriend? Or was he just saying that to upset Serena because he knew she was listening? Ugh, I don't even know. I'm not sure that I know anything at all about anything anymore! I feel like Parker wouldn't intentionally hurt me like that, but there remains this tiny niggling doubt in the back of my mind that things couldn't possibly work out in my favor; they usually don't. That's just the way my life has always been.

Serena was right, though; I'm not good enough for Parker.

He deserves someone better than me. He deserves... more. More than I am, more than I could ever give him. Parker Adams deserves everything. And me? I'm just... well, I'm Morgan Feldman; I'm basically nothing. I shouldn't drag Parker into my problems. I just...

I sit on the floor in my bathroom, in the exact spot that seems to beckon me every time my mind torments me; it's a strange and familiar comfort, even though I know it shouldn't be. With my trusty razor in my hand and tears streaming relentlessly down my cheeks, I try to decide how many cuts it will take to rid me of the thoughts flooding my head. How many times do I have to slice through my flesh... just to feel like I can breathe again? How much blood has to pool on the floor... before I no longer feel like I'm drowning?

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall; I've done this so many times that I don't even need to watch anymore. It's become habitual. Instinctual. It's like my hand and the blade become one, knowing precisely where to go and what to do to finally provide me with the relief I need. The razor presses into my skin and slowly drags across my thigh, adding another scar to the many that already litter the area. I can feel the blood trickling from the freshly made cut, staining my leg as it runs down to the floor.

One.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. And another. And another. It doesn't work; I don't feel any different. Everything is still too much. A strangled sob tears from my chest, getting caught in my throat.

Two.

This time, my fingers press the razor into my flesh a little harder and drag it a little farther. I shake my head vigorously, trying to get rid of the jumble of thoughts, to clear it all away. It's useless. I... What if it never stops? What if... I don't even know what to do if this doesn't work; it's never not helped before.

Three.

My hand is shaking now, my breathing getting harder, heavier, as I failingly try to keep myself steady. To keep myself awake. This usually helps me feel better... Why isn't it working today...? Maybe I should just... go to sleep? That should ease all of my burdens for a little while, right?

Four.

I'm starting to feel lighter... Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it really is working. Perhaps I was just thinking too much about it... Or, I don't know. Maybe this time, I'm a little more stressed than usual and need a bit more help. Is that how it works? I guess I wouldn't really know.

Five.

The razor slips from my hand, clattering to the tile floor. My limp hand drops to my side, surprising me slightly when it's met with a warm wetness instead of the typical coolness of the tiles. It's probably blood; that's my first thought. And my best guess. I can only imagine how much of the sticky red substance is coating my bathroom... and myself... as I'm too afraid to open my eyes and look. Fear strikes me suddenly as my limbs grow heavy, my head lolling to the side in a way it hadn't been doing before. Did I do too much this time...?

I take a few deep breaths, convincing myself that I need to examine the scene; I need to know the extent of the damage I've caused... just in case. My eyes slowly peek open, and I can't tell if I'm shocked or horrified by the sight awaiting me. My mutilated leg is covered in red, and I can plainly see where the liquid gushed from my self-inflicted wounds and spilled onto the floor. The razor landed in a puddle of blood--if it wasn't slippery before, it surely is now. And my hand... hmm. Yes, I guess I cut a bit more than I usually do.

My eyes are tired, my entire body exhausted from this day, my eyelids practically incapable of staying open. I don't know how much longer I can fight against my own body to keep myself awake. I rest my head back on the wall again, allowing my eyes to fall shut.

I'll just rest them for a little while... and then, when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. Right?