That Other Kid

I just couldn't stand another moment. There was just so much I could bear. They don't love me. They love their jobs, their lives, their relatives. But I just couldn't get them to love me. Nothing I did was right. They see flaws, they see the need to criticize, to complain. I was a burden, a prick in the flesh. In fact at times, I felt that my presence draws a cold atmosphere along. The coldness, the unfamiliarity, the silence. The painful silence.

And people think I am lucky to be the only child. It isn't like how it seems. I don't get extra attention. At times, none at all. Being the only child makes all faults mine, getting blamed for things I didn't do, because there was no other kid to blame it on. Being the only child also makes my best seem imperfect, because there is no one else to compare. No extra clothes, no extra candy, no extra books, all for the reason that there is no one else to share.

Another fight. Today. I ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door shut. Uncontrollable tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried hard. "Why?", my heart screamed. Is it true that people will only start to notice, to appreciate, to regret after you die? Is it true? Is that the only way I could get them to realize how much I had suffered? I took out a pocketknife from the drawer.

Curled up against my pillow, with flashes of memories of my pathetic life, I started to slowly slit my wrist. I wasn't really serious about suicide. It was just the gleeful imagination of how people would react towards my death, the revenge I would have achieved. The gentle sliding of the knife caused a line to form on my wrist. It did not hurt, nor was it bleeding. It was just a line, and I continued slicing my own skin, still sobbing unendingly.

Until the first drop of blood emerged, slowly flowing down my forearm, pausing at every strand of hair, displaying its gravitational art, and finally dripping onto my bed. It did not hurt as much as I thought it would. In fact, it gave me a sudden thrill to slit further and observe the outcome. I reached towards my bloodied wrist and closed my eyes as I continued with the left and right motion, trying to create more depth upon the wound. More blood poured out, this time at a faster pace. It hurt more than before. But at the same time, my heart felt better. With every single drop of blood which touched the bed, my mind screamed its dissatisfaction. "This is for saying that I'm not good enough, and this, is for ignoring me when I speak."

Drop after drop, accompanied by words of pain, the dark red patch on my bed spreads further, while my face began to turn pale. I had no more tears to spare, and hardly any energy to move. At last, I laid on my pillow, and with a weak voice, I managed to mutter, "And this, is for not loving me."