Posted in Reflection


The first time I cut my wrist was July 17, 2012. I was depressed. In my bathroom, I held a piece of my glass, tried to end my life. Because it was my first time, I had no clue how to cut it and how deep I should cut. Every time it didn’t work out, I switched to another piece. My writs (both hands) turned pink then red. The lines appeared more clearly. It swollen but no blood came out. Was it hilarious ? I tried to cut my wrist and blood didn’t come out? At one point, I  worn out. I leant on the door, spaced out. I was imagining that someone would barge into here, see what I was doing and stop me. I scared. If it really happened, I would stick in a big mess. But then, when I thought about it again. I realized that I wanted someone to stop me but the reason I scared was not that I would get into trouble. I scared because I knew people would never react like the way I hoped they would be. They would blame everything on me. They would think me crazy and I would sat there silently as if my soul had already left me, as if I had already died.

It was a sharp cut. It happened so fast that I stared at my wrist unbelievably. Then I did exactly the same thing to the other hand. It happened so fast that I couldn’t see anything. The only way that I knew was the pain when I cut my skin. Unbearable. However, it wasn’t deep enough.  Before I realized, my hands were trembling, especially the right one. I laughed, thought how funny life was. I tempt to cut it deeper but the pain from the cuts and the coward    stopped me. I gazed at the blood flowing out of my hand, dripping on the floor. I laid on the floor and suddenly my mind went blank. I closed my eyes imagine when people walked in and saw a pool of blood, a corpse. “Should I write a will?” I laughed. I sat up, collected all the pieces and hid them away. Before that I memorized all the pieces which one I could use and how to use them. I knew this would be the second time. When I could finally cut myself, nothing would prevent me from doing that again.

I sat on the chair, worried that they would see the cuts but my anxiety gradually gone. By the time they went home I had been perfectly normal. It hurt every time I moved. As time passed, the pain seemed to increase and sometimes they were so unbearable that I believed they intended to do that to me. Like “Hey remember you have cut yourself here. We will never disappear as well as your pain.” Therefore, once a while, I rise my left hand up and kiss on my wrist. It’s pretty weird, isn’t it? Because even the cuts heal and fade away, for me, they still there…. Anyway, come back to July 17, after a while, I started to cook dinner and then they came home. We had dinner like usual. They would ask how was my day and I would reply it was normal. Then they would went on talking to each other and I would remain silent for the rest of the meal. They didn’t know that I cut my wrist. Maybe because I acted as if nothing went wrong so they didn’t even care. I could cut my wrist million times and they would never ever know. Is it hysterical?



Linh hồn trong thế giới ngược

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