Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
I was fucked up. I didn't need a doctor or a specialist to tell me that. I guess I've know that ever since I started obeying the urges, to put steel to skin, blade to blood; the urges which have become my reality.

It started before I was even born. My father abused my mother, more so when she was pregnant with her second child - me. Her first child, my brother, had been a miscarriage so I was her light and hope again. Soon after I was born she left. I don't know where she went; her body stayed but the bright , happy and strong woman I knew had left. She became a punch bag for my father. Physically and mentally: my father had a way of saying things that made you feel so shit about yourself.

My name is Bec. This is my voice.

Bang! The door slams in my face as I collapse against the wall, gasping for life. My chest as tight as my fathers hands had been; mere seconds ago although it seemed like hours. My mind racing as I search for answers: What did I do to deserve this? What did I do that was so bad that Karma had to rein fucking hell over me most days? My heart slows and the rate of my breathing returns to normal. Gathering myself as well as I can I settle down on my bed. I find my hand reaching for my bedside drawer, fingers searching for a book, yet they are drawn to something else. Something cold. Something metallic. Something that stops me dead. I pick up the blade by it's small, intricate handle and I stare at it for what seems like an eternity although in reality was probably only about five seconds. I turn my left arm over, exposing the deep gashes and dark purple scars from weeks of self harm. Pressing the blade to the inside of my wrist, emotions and impulses guide my every move.
  'I cant, I shouldn't, but I must; I must show myself how ugly I really

I try to keep composed, but I unsuccessfully looks control for a slit second, that was all it took for the damage to be done, no stopping now - I feel release, the release that I have longed for, the release that makes this all worthwhile. The pain is a comfort, reminding me that I am still alive, I am not dead. The irreplaceable feeling of cold steel splitting ,y skin is beyond words that I can fathom. The pumping of adrenaline makes stopping no option; the deeper I go, the bigger the rush. Every cut deeper than the last, my blade thirsts. Worst is, I relish at the pain.


Today is our school prize giving, everyone seems to expect me to get the honour writers award. My father doesn't care, but I do, my feelings would soar -many people wonder how much of my writing is fiction as they say the images are vivid and shocking- a joy and achievement I can take pride in. The waiting is killing me, no less than life usually does; why do these teachers insist on draining every ounce of suspense from us? Too cliché, their drumrolls, whispering as students await the results of countless sports, music and extra curricular activity achievements.

I wonder if it's strange, to have my voice narrating my life, empathic to itself? Or is it just another mental disorder to add to my list of self diagnosed malfunctions?


I skip home, hardly able to contain my excitement and I whistle gayly, proclaiming my joy! I won the Honor Writers Award; my story - Daydream Away, written about a small boy who's best friend is a fragment of his imagination and everybody scorns him. He's  a self - harmer, of sorts; he has become clumsy through self enjoyment of pain. I want to introduce the idea into society that self harm isnt a cry of  the attention seeker, but more a cry from the pits of bullingm isolation and depression. Society just believes it's unjust whearas it's society that is forming the disorders.

I once knew a girl who suffered from the mental disorder 'Anorexia Nervosa' - she used to be slightly overweight and was constantly teased for her size, so she decided to take action. She gradually stopped eating, pecking at her food rather than feeding, refusing rather than accepting. Growing increasingly skinnier, I began to notice and became worried - I talked to her and she consoled in me, slowly eating and regaining weight back. Although she is now alot healthier than she was before she now constantly worrys about her body image, comparing herself to what she sees in magazines and on TV.

I still think that if her (and my) fellow students hadn't called her fat on a constant basis and if society wasn't pushing this idealistic view of 'beauty' into everyones head, the effects wouldn't have shown, or even been acknowledged. Many people now consider her a hypocondriac, but in reality she's just a struggling teenage girl.
Add a Comment:
xxEmi-AnGeL-chanxx Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Wow.... This is amazingly suspenseful and just wow... I have no words for this.
NeverFallAsleep Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you very much :)
xxEmi-AnGeL-chanxx Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
no problem (:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Wow, this is bleak :( A friend of mine used to have similar problems, so I can kind of relate to the issues raised here.

I really like the change of pace between "My name is Bec..." and the slamming of the door. It's a real wake-up moment, kick-starting the story.

I would caution you on making things too bleak. Make sure you pepper the story with slower, less upsetting scenes - not necessarily happy-happy stuff, but something to break up the badness and give time to build a relationship with the protagonist. A few small victories will go a long way in a story like this :)
NeverFallAsleep Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you yeah I'm still working on it, I'm just giving an over-view of her life right now, I dont know the rest of the storyline yet haha. I know the end and I'm still structuring the rest in my head.
Add a Comment:

:iconneverfallasleep: More from NeverFallAsleep

Featured in Collections

inspirational by Hellrebel

victimsunited by nnn1997

Devious Collection 7 by zombieslare

More from DeviantArt


Submitted on
February 28, 2012
File Size
5.0 KB


13 (who?)