You are viewing a story from

Exit Wounds by ohmymerlin

View Online  |  Printer Friendly Version of Entire Story

Format: One-shot
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 512

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Strong Violence, Substance Use or Abuse, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme

Genres: Horror/Dark, Angst
Characters: OC

First Published: 08/25/2012
Last Chapter: 12/05/2012
Last Updated: 12/05/2012

banner by Carnal Spiral @ tda

Marks of battle, they still feel raw
A million pieces of me, on the floor

For Ilia's Every Word Counts Challenge and RHadley's Interpretations Challenge

Chapter 1: Exit Wounds
[View Online]

I was frozen. I couldnít move. I didn't know what was happening. I couldnít see clearly at all, everything was a big mess of screaming, crying and blood.

There was a pain in the back of my head that I couldnít get rid of. People were saying something, but I couldnít hear them.

The pain. It was ripping through me. I scraped at my skin, trying to feel where it was coming from. Trying to make it stop, make it hurt less.

It felt like there was a chunk taken away from me. Leaving me empty and unused.

There was a blur of white and grey. The healers were shouting something about losing blood.

I couldnít feel anything anymore. I didnít want to.

The scars marked the battle I went through. Iíll see something and be reminded what happened to me, what I did to myself. Iíll fall to the ground in a million pieces for everyone to see.

I was broken and I always will be broken.

Who would want to be with someone so ruined?

I had so many things weighing me down. I took drugs, I got drunk on a daily basis, Iíd go home and look for a knife, remembering that they took it away from me.

It feels like they grabbed a knife, shoved it in my chest and twisted it to pull my heart out when they walked out that door.

They knew I was already broken, but they walked away from me, leaving me.

They broke me even further.

I was flying through the blur of white and grey again. They gave me a potion and I drank it numbly. I glanced down at the scars all down my arms. I scratched and picked at them.

They were ugly; they proved that I was weak and useless. That I couldnít get through this.

The healers made me strip down in my underwear. They wanted to see the rest of the scars, over my stomach, my thighs, everywhere.

They grabbed their wands and tried to take my scars away from me.

I screamed. Those scars defined me. They couldnít get rid of them; I needed them to remind me to never relapse again.

The scars were me and I was nothing without the scars.

My scars showed others that I could get through the war between myself.

There were still times where they made feel exposed and I broke down, breaking into a million pieces again. I got through it.

Before, I was weak. Now I am strong. The scars proved that.

There was that blur of white and grey again. I had relapsed again.

I donít think I could do it anymore.

Looking down at the scars, I knew I couldn't do this anymore. I was dying from them.

It was the quiet part of the night when I left the hospital. I walked to the edge of the world and looked at my scars.

I closed my eyes and let myself go.