Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Sweet Pain ❯ One-Shot

Sweet Pain

By Hanyou_swimmer

 

A:N/ I do own this story. There are no names given. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that this is a DARK FIC and it does contain angst. The story is written from the viewpoint of a girl who feels the need to `punish' herself. I, Rubyhunny, do not in any way, shape, or form agree with cutting yourself. Also, this is a story, its not real and I would ask anyone offended by the topics of the story not to read it. There is an abundance of fan fiction and original fiction on this site, find another story that you do like and are not offended by if you so wish.

 

I have no idea why I wrote this story, but I felt I should post it. I would appreciate any and all feedback you could give me. Thank you for your time and for reading my story.

 

 

 

It hurts, it hurts so bad. I can't explain the feeling. Sometimes I don't want too. It seems like the world around me is falling apart at the seams and there isn't anything I can do about it. No one understands. No one could understand. It just hurts too bad to try.

 

It's not like I'm homesick, well ok I am but I don't know why. Whenever I go home they don't make a big deal of it, even though I want them to. Sure, I like too have some alone time every now and again but spending time with my parents and little brother isn't something that I would mind. I love them with all of my heart, although I have no idea if they even care anymore. I have no idea if anyone cares anymore.

 

Don't get me wrong, I believe that if I died today they would cry for me, all of them, my parents, brother, friends, but I wonder if they would be crying over the lose of me or the lose of the old me.

 

I know I've changed. They say they don't see it, but they do. They have too. I force myself to talk to them on a regular basis. I need to make sure they still care.

 

I can't explain the feeling that are growing within me. They are of pain and despair. Although no one ever sees it. I always put on a happy face. If I look happy and can convince them that I'm happy, then maybe I can actually be happy. But I know they don't buy it, they pretend too for my sake, but they know.

 

Happy? What is that? I can remember a feeling that I described as happiness, but it was so long ago that I can hardly even remember it. Sure I have moments when I forget that I'm unhappy and give in to laughter, not just giggles or even fake laughs, but real actual laugh till you cry tears. But even the fake laughs that I give to appease those around me are few and far between anymore.

 

I punish myself. I can't help it. Sometimes I feel like the world is on my shoulders and it calls to me. If I can punish myself for all of my wrong doings then maybe the guilt will go away, maybe I can be the happy little girl that I once was.

 

I take that back, I was never a happy little girl. I never really had friends, so I was usually alone and would often talk to myself. I never heard a voice respond but it seemed to make the pain of loniness go away. I had someone that I could talk to. Someone who would listen to every word and tells me it was ok, someone that understood ho much it hurt when the kids on the playground made fun of me and how much it hurt to watch the world go by and know that you would never fit into it.

 

As I take the sharp razor out of the medicine cabinet to begin my punishment I await the relief it will bring. My skin is itching, calling to me to bring it the sweet pain that made the hurt go away.

 

I lift my pant leg up and go to work on my ankles. I would never do that sort or thing to my arms, someone would notice and pretend that they cared. They would torture me and make me give up the one thing that made life bearable, the punishment that I received for pushing them all away.

 

No I could not let that happen. No they would not take away my relief. They all knew I did it. They knew that I punished myself. They knew and they encouraged it with their looks of pity and sympathy. They just couldn't understand.

 

I feel the wonderful pain in my ankles as the blood drips down them slowly. I move as I begin my work on my other ankle. Soon I realize that the pain is dulling and that I was too easy. The skin my ankles was getting to weak.

 

Slowly I remove my shoes and socks and start working on my left foot. I am left with so much pain from the feel of the razorblade touching the bone in my foot that I decide I have received enough punishment for the time being. I would save the other foot for later.

 

As I walk out into the hall I look around at all the nice things my mother has and instantly feel guilty for punishing myself in her home. So I simply walk to my bedroom and retrieve the blade that I keep hidden under my bed and start the punishment on my right foot.

 

As I do this I hear a gasp and realize my mistake. I forgot to lock the door. Mother simply walks over and takes my hand. She leads me down the hall to the bathroom. She runs cold water and gently washed my wounds with such a love that I feel bad again. I disgraced her once again.

 

She looks up into my eyes and silently pleads for me to tell her what was going on, but remained silent as she knew I would not tell her. She reaches up and removes the blade from my fingers and goes to the medicine chest she removes the remaining blades as well as some other sharp objects. Not to my surprise she removes gauze and wrap as well as some disinfectant. She always does this. She always treats my wounds as though she were important, as though she cared and that made me want to go into my room and start the whole punishment over.

 

But I knew that I couldn't. At least not yet anyways. She would keep an eye on me for the next few days. Almost as though she was torturing me. She couldn't stand to see me relieve the pressure, couldn't stand to see me do the one thing that I knew would help me move on.

 

Still something inside me said to tell her, she would understand. I hear sobs and turn my head. She is sitting next to me with her back turned crying. For the first time I realize that never in all the times that she has caught me has she cryed or for that matter spoke. She would always tend the wounds and leave me to reopen them. I knew I had to tell her I just wasn't sure what.

 

For the first time I spoke “Mommy, are you okay?” I say in a tone that reminds me even of a lost child. She turns around and looks into my eyes and reaches her hands out to me. I go to her and she cradles me if though I was a toddler who was scared. She pushes my head into her lap and smoothes my hair. She looks at me with her tearful eyes and finally asks, “why?”

 

I look at her and say the truth, “I don't know.” That was when the damn broke. I started crying into my mother's lap, huge wailing sobs. I have no idea how long I cried, but when I awoke she was there. She was still holding me like I was her most precious possession.

 

We were laying down and I was on back. She was curled up around my head, still smoothing my hair. I used to love when she would do that. But it was so long ago. I dare to pick up my head and look into her eyes. They were full of tears and despair. But also hope. That was when I knew I would be ok. She still loved me. Even though I defiled her house, even though I shut her out.

 

Mommy looked at me and said, “go back to sleep, it'll all be ok.” And somehow I believed her.