Tonight.

Things are starting to get difficult in this house again. I finally reached it, happiness, a few months ago or even a year ago or so. Then this all happened. Who’s to blame really of these family problems? I’ve had my fair share, I suppose. I’m a bad daughter. Always have been. Is it wrong that when everything gets difficult for me, my urges of depression comes back? My dad was yelling, kicking, punching, slapping, yet all I could focus on was the pair of big purple scissors I always used to cut myself. This may sound sick to some of you. I really don’t care. I was sobbing with my puffy, red eyes. Yet, the thought of those scissors slicing through my skin made me smile, made me flutter inside. It made me feel like I could get pleasure again for doing so. I have marks on my thighs that everyone looks at when they are seen. I’ve seen many faces, disappointment, pity, anger and even disgust. But, I truly don’t care. It made me feel better, in an odd way. But I’ve stopped this habit for a while now, sober per say, but I can’t help these urges. I feel like I have to do it to take the pain away. I know those scissors were in the bathroom. When my dad finished, I limped to the bathroom and looked for it. It was gone. I restrained myself. I cannot do this. I’ve stopped for so long, I cannot go back to my old ways. Not when I’ve come so far. Then, I saw it. It was in my sister’s room, I quickly grabbed it and yelled at my sister. I had her hold it and I shouted, “Just kill me!” She sobbed, and I did as well. I couldn’t handle the pain. The scissors slipped through her hand and onto the bed. I looked at it, and painfully walked away. I needed it, my mind said I needed it. But I don’t and I know I don’t. But at this moment, sitting on my bed, I’m anxiously thinking about those scissors. And how I want it so badly to cut through my skin, spilling my red blood to trickle down slowly. But since I’m still here, I know I have hope. There must be some remaining hope in me? Right?