To let in
You sat in your bedroom, hiding your face in the pillow.
Your parents yelled in the other room, fighting about you. Custody. They were getting a divorce.
It was all your fault. It was all you.
You couldn’t cry, it wouldn’t come. The tears were frozen in the back of your eyes, forever wanting to be released, but unable to.
You’d look like a baby if you did. Your father would yell at you.
You then climbed out of bed.
It was too loud — too much, everything was everywhere and you couldn’t focus — couldn’t feel, but you felt everything.
You didn’t know how to feel.
It was a silent creep you made to the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
You opened your dad’s drawer, digging out a blade that was meant for the razor.
You were always taught not to play with knives, not to be irresponsible with blades, keep your mouth shut and sit tight. But here you were, at the age of ten, pulling your pajama pants down and drawing angry, red lines on your thighs.
It burned like nothing you’ve ever felt. It was refreshing all the same. You didn’t know how to feel, but it quieted everything. Even for a brief moment, this was safe.
It stained your thighs, deeply, the scars burning into your vision, blurring your vision with tears that still didn’t spill.
You wiped the blood that seeped out and held onto the knife tightly, secured in your fist.
——
You had gotten away with it for a while. Much longer than you had anticipated — or hoped, really.
Though, there was nobody to notice. Nobody that cared enough to notice.