Ugly Lies Leave Ugly Scars

Winter’s rain clashed heavily against the small street of Birchwood Boulevard, the tense force rocking back trees, swaying mesmerizing. The wind swore with a trembling cry; the sound echoed through the cloudy, overpowering dark of the night. Cautious to the consuming force of Mother Nature, you seat yourself by the window where the crimson blood of your wounds seem juxtaposed to the weary late hour. The tissues pressed against the parted skin soaked up blotches of lines that you dash vertically across without a care.
Because nobody cared.
You think back to today where the grey clouds of Tuesday morning sucked the remaining happiness from your chest. Your gaze wavers around; to and fro, until you’re sure you grab no one’s attention. Seemingly at ease, you walk with purpose to the locker bay where a crowd of students dash about for home room. It’s only when you’re a foot away from your destination the nightmare of last night’s terror arose.
Harsh laughter spilled from society’s horrendous teenagers. Blubbering on like mocking birds, their eyes burn your skin inside out. Words you’ve heard before spat out of their mouths, attacking you with powerful strikes and piercing knives, all so familiar, all so cunning – deeply wounding your soul and causing lungs to expand with blood and exhale with poison.
You quickly move and ignore those around you, finding it hard to move now. Your joints click together; your muscles turning into solids, contrast to the tears that threatened to find release. The dam gets bigger and penetrated stares turned to cold, exasperated orbs of hatred and mockery. Rumours persisted forward.
You don’t stay in your classes; your will has broken to pieces, shattering in excruciating cries against the tiles of the bathroom floor. Your inspiring role model’s encouraging words deflate, loosely slipping out from your mind as your fingers scrape your skull, unsuccessfully praying a headache won’t form. You can’t wait to get home. You can’t wait for anything anymore.
Fingers numbly take the razor from your pocket. It’s warm and cold at the same time, but the most important thing was how familiar the object was between your fingers. Its acute design grazes against the thick layer of surface on your thumb, teasing with promising pain and pleasures. Your hands shake. Your breath quickens. Cut after slice; news scars form over old ones and your blood oozes away.
When you get home with those ugly scars printed against your skin, you smile and laugh at your baby sibling and make little conversation with your mum. Your dad wasn’t at all inside the household but you assume he’s out drinking again. He’s never going to change so why should your pain too?
Time ticked by and night clouded the day, quicker than you would have liked. Emotions and frustrations fog your mind. You try and breathe, to tell yourself you’re better without the pain, but you know it’s not true. The pain would always be there. Your scars hold the evidence.

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