I wrote this a while ago...

[SadistSecret]

“I can’t explain, you would not understand, this is not how I am. I have become comfortably numb. I have become comfortably numb…Ok. Just a little pinprick… I heard the voice of David Gilmour playing through my stereo system. “Comfortably Numb”, off the album The Wall by Pink Floyd. I loved that song. Best. Band. Ever. Enough said. I sat in my chair, hoping to maybe get a few thoughts for some poetry. I was bored out of my mind. Maybe I should grab me a knife. No. She wouldn’t like that. “I can’t do that, not now, not just for fun.” I thought, as I was looking on the scars I had put on myself over the past few weeks. They looked like they could be from anything, so I had an excuse ready. But only me and her knew what they were really about. I was a cutter. I had a fascination with knives and the thought of me bleeding was less morbid to me than to most others. Hell, I actually liked cutting and bleeding, and then maybe if it bled right, drinking it as well. I thought the taste of blood was a good thing. I liked it a lot. I would sometimes make a few cuts just to taste it. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not suicidal or anything, I just like blood. It’s so sweet, and yet bitter at the same time. And it has an aftertaste, so I never really need very much to satisfy my need. I think that is a good thing, since I only weigh about a hundred pounds and maybe a little less, so if I lost too much I wouldn’t have long to live. And dying is something I am not planning on doing anytime soon. Nonetheless, I still enjoy that crimson stream flowing from my hand, or my arm or wherever I decide to place my knife when I feel like cutting. Maybe I should listen to a different song…nah. I like this one just fine. Suddenly, the phone rings. “Hello?” Hey, what’s up?” a familiar voice on the other end. It was that special person that kept my masochistic urges at bay. She was why I didn’t have and new scars on me…yet. “Not much. How are you?” “Pretty good and yourself?” “Meh. I had another one of my memory surges earlier today” A memory surge is when a lot of my old, most cases hurtful, memories come up, a train of them, and I wait indefinitely for this “train” to finally pass through, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. “Did you…do anything?” I knew what she meant by that. “I was about to when it happened, and again just a few minutes ago for no reason at all.” I was almost in tears at this. And she could tell. “It’s ok…you didn’t do anything…you’re just fine. You sound like you need a hug” “I do”, I said, holding back tears, “ I really do” “If I was there, I would.” She was telling the truth. “Thank you, this really means a lot to me, you being here for me and all.” That came from the heart. “ I got to go, dinner is done. I’ll talk to you later and please be good, I know, it’s really hard sometimes, but do it for me.” “I will. Talk to you later. Buh bye.” I hung up the phone. I then looked at the clock, and it told me it was almost 9 at night. Wow. Late as it may be, she still called just in time to keep a masochist from hurting himself any more than he already has.

[Dizzybee]

i am confused.

[SadistSecret]

What's confusing?

[kpyro12002]

remeber when i did a continuation, heres part of it.


I put down the phone and prayed to myself that he hadn’t done anything. I pulled up my sleeve and thought to myself what I hypocrite I was. The burn marks on my wrist had blistered again from the last I had re burnt them. I remember sitting there on the grass in front a huge cross. Wishing I could believe in that which I don’t understand and burning because I couldn’t do it. Right on top of an old mark so no one who knew about this habit would see something new. If they did I would lose control of this. My father would be told or I would be sent to a counselor. I didn’t want that. I wanted it for my friend though. I really think he needed someone to help him who knew what they were doing. I spoke to him from my heart but that’s all I have. I didn’t know everything. To even tell him to stop was wrong because I was a hypocrite. I hated it. What I hated even more was I caused him to start. I had put the fascination there with my words. With speaking from my heart and I was scared of what I could continue to do to him if I kept pretending to help. I don’t want to hurt him any more I felt as though I’d already inflicted so much.
I seemed to be so good at inflicting pain. On myself and on others. My wrist held twenty scars and that was just one of the places. Many of them had been reopened. Over twenty times I lost control. That’s what happens when I hurt myself. I lose control. I feel as if there is no end to the hurt and body wants so badly to lash out. But this gives me my control back.

[pyro]

James, that sounds exactly like a conversation we've had before, only that was over msn.....

[SadistSecret]

Yeah, maybe, but I wrote it before I knew you.

[pyro]

when'd you write it?

[SadistSecret]

sometime about july/august of 2004

[pyro]

I see.
It's exaclt ylike a convo. we had. lol
remember, they save on the computer.

[SadistSecret]

I looked down at my hand, scarred from plenty of cuts before. I started to count them. Two, three, four, after a while it got up to 15, then all the way to 22. All over veins in my hand, and even a few on my arm, hidden on the side where they would remain unseen to all but the most trained eyes. I thought of why I had done this to myself. Stress relief, anger management, general emotional breakdown, and some of them were for fun. “Twenty-two,” I thought, ‘ I’ve done this to myself twenty-two times. And I liked every single one of them. What has happened to me?” I was questioning what little sanity I had left. She understands what I have been doing to myself. But I still wanted to stop, and she wanted it as well. I thought for a bit, grabbed my red pen, and wrote another cutting poem. After a while I had finished it. It was pretty long, “I’ll read it to her tomorrow,’ I thought, and I hid the poem under my bed, where nobody would see it, and I went to sleep. Later I woke up and looked at my clock. It was 5:17 in the morning. Why the hell was I up this early? Hell if I knew, and hell if I cared. I just grabbed my knife, without any thought, and sliced a vein in my hand, right where 6 other slices were. Blood swelled up around where I made the cut. I watched the flow cover about half of my hand in a matter of seconds. I let it drip into a cup, and waited as the blood started to clot in the cut. I wiped off my hand on the rim of the cup, being careful to waste as little blood as I could. Afterwards, I cleaned off my hand. “What a waste,” I thought, and looked at the nearly full cup on my bedside table. After drinking the blood in the cup (I can’t waste it), I soon started to cry. I didn’t want to have done this. I felt a tear softly rolling down my cheek. I looked at my newest scar, and wondered what insane force caused me to do this to myself. “ I wasn’t good. I wasn’t good at all,” I thought, and I cried some more, hoping that maybe the tears would make it better somehow. I turned on my radio, and just listened to whatever was playing. It was “Lady” by Styx. Made me think of her. “Lady…When you’re with me I’m smiling” That song always made me think of her. What a sweet girl she was, being with me and keeping this secret for me. I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone. And I would do the same for her. “You gave all the love that I needed” I kept listening, and after a few songs that I didn’t know, I decided to write some more on the story we were working on. She started it sometime a while back, and I added on to it. It became this thing that we did together. Unfortunately, it was on my computer, and I didn’t need to have blood on my keyboard. So I wiped off my hand again, just to make sure it was clean, and started typing up some more. Anything to get me out of the mood of blood. Anything to keep my sanity in check. I wrote a bit, read it, and decided to get ready for school.