by M. Crawford

Created on: April 23, 2008

The scars on my wrist stare up at me, tearing at my heart, spitting on my feeble attempt at hope. They taunt me with their silence. Why won't they scream? Why won't they tell the whole world why they're there, so I don't have to. They remain, silent and stationary, guarding their secrets, my secrets. The scars on my wrist stare up at me, and they're threatening to give me away.

He showed up unexpectedly. My little brother was with him. I didn't know something was wrong until I woke up in the morning. And there was no way I could have guessed that nothing would ever be right again.
"She's been doing meth, Emily," Kathy, my mom's best friend, told me. "She hasn't been home in days." Way to break it to me easy, right?
That's when I stopped living with my mom. He said it was my choice at first, and that it would only be for a little while. My choice turned into an order. A little while became two months. I was barely allowed to talk to her, and certainly not allowed to see her. It was torment, to say the least.
I needed her. Even her presence would have been enough then. The sweet smell of her perfume and the familiar hint of cigarettes might have done worlds of good. But woulds and mights don't do me any good now. She wasn't there, she couldn't be. I was alone.
Of course, my dad tried to talk to me. He tried desperately. I might as well have been a clam.
Talking just didn't come easy for me. And talking with the man who had robbed me of happiness was without a doubt out of the question. So I holed up, wallowing in a torrent of confusion. I became an island, waves of agony sweeping my darkened shores. I was falling apart.

My head was pounding, drumming against my temples. I was close to collapsing. Life smothered me. I lay, grief stricken, sprawled at life's feet as it tilted it's vicious head back and laughed. I can still hear the laughter every time I glance the scars on my wrist.
The scars. They may fade, but there will always be that trace, that deep rooted depression every time I so much as glance them.
I thought they might be like battle scars. That they might prove my pain. Maybe people would see them and know, this girl has been through something that broke her completely.
But they're ugly, they're hideous. And all they do is laugh in my face, chanting, "Look what you gave in to."
They are no reminder of my strength. They only make me feel weaker, make me want to collapse and give into them again. Because I was so blissfully depressed then, so utterly absorbed in my misery. I couldn't help but love it with every fiber of my being. Even if I hated every inch of that being.

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