Rusted Scissors

I cut myself for the first time today. About five minutes ago, I washed it and it’s burning a lot. There is still this need, a drive or urge to inflict more pain on to myself; I want to kill myself. I don’t miss anything, anymore; this might be the answer to my problems or the beginning of a new end.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek; couldn’t move from the darkness and my body felt paralyzed waist below. I chose to stay here, staring at the ivory wash basin and the green wine bottle with that silly flower I put in. I looked at the bathroom ceiling, felt proud of how clean it is; put my palms down and felt the cold, grey, porous floor. The scissors were still in my right hand and crimson stripes on my left arm glistened, under the florescent light as I sat on the floor.
My breathing was heavy, heard a truck on the main road honk and silence lingered around awkwardly. There was a burning sensation on each of the cuts and it hurt like a citrus burn and I enjoyed it. It was nice. I washed my tears and blood, wanted to get back and lay down on my bed.
Smell of the old metal scissors (I used) still lingering, it’s funny. This scissor’s been in my house since, forever. I remember my mother grabbing it from my hand when I was kid, out of worry that I’d cut myself, accidentally; now I’m doing it wilfully.
I want to put an end to all this pain, I don’t want to deal with all these terrible emotions; all these people leaving. It started to bother me after my brother (cousin) killed himself, he was the second to do that; our older brother killed himself too. So much tragedy, it feels like an art film; probably if it’s made into a movie it could get screened at Cannes but then I’d have to die for it to be artsy enough. Artsy films don’t have a happy ending.
My stomach is acting weird and I want to throw up – nausea – I lay on my stomach; shove my face in to the blanket on the bed.
I asked my best friend to keep talking to me till he plans to go to bed; he’s got college tomorrow at 8am. He has to ride eleven (11) or more kilometres to get to college, and its 1am now. He’s reading a book and didn’t want to put it down, therefore tried to finish as much, before the inevitable.
Somehow I know that my death is going to hurt people, but everyone’s going to forget it; so… The cuts sting like crazy, but it’s good that it stings; it’s distracting my mind from the need to kill myself. “God teenagers today imitate western movies and think all this is cool a thwack on the head will cure their problems” said this father role from a Telugue movie.
I really want to talk to someone but I don’t know who, the urge is back and it’s getting stronger. I probably might just do it, somehow I never saw myself being here.
I feel like puking again, the sensation is all the way down in my stomach.
Best friend texts what’s new, told him I cut myself for the first time today. He says WTF, I find it funny. He’s sweet and really nice, but I know he doesn’t know how to react to that or handle it. Yet I tell him, like a selfish piece of shit. I didn’t have to tell him; but I wanted to talk to someone; I feel guilty about it, but how the hell does it make a difference. He’s saying funny things and I am laughing but I’m not able to shake the feeling off.
What if I die at 21? Unlike my older brothers; oh wait no big difference. Oldest died at 22/23 and so did the other, I’ll probably beat them and get out faster, from this sad excuse for a life. After dying, I think I’ll be suspended in infinite space, floating, it’ll be like swimming, and I’ll enjoy that. I like swimming.
My best friend’s really annoyed, he wants to talk to my parents, told him it’s a bad idea. Convinced him it’s not too bad, promised to talk to one of my teachers and he backed out. I curled myself in bed and thought about how I would probably fail the psychology exam the next morning.
I always thought of myself as that boy; quiet, well mannered, ok looking and an average Kumar. I was never ambitious, wanted to be a lawyer, or an actor or director, and as I grew older wanted three F’s, Fame, Fortune and well F. From the silly teenager I became that boy who dropped out of Engineering and spent a year doing almost nothing – other than a little ‘soul searching’ – and then wandered into an arts college to study English Literature, Journalism and Psychology.
I just asked my friend to sleep, and I told this one guy who was in the same class as me last year, that I cut myself for the first time today, hasn’t replied,  he’ll reply tomorrow. I’ve read and heard about teenagers who went off rail and always wondered how that happened; I’m there right now, don’t know how I got here or how to get out. Stuck in a labyrinth of my making.

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