#scentric

..

You had picked up the habit years prior, as lack of self-esteem and your best friend abandoning you would do that. The first time had been an accident, a kitchen knife grazing your fingers as you made yourself dinner one evening. You were shocked and appalled with yourself as to how it seemed to take you away from the reality of the world, if even for a second. As the months went by, it became less and less about finding an escape, and more about not knowing another way to cope.

Your cool gaze moved over to your right hand, where it clutched onto the razor blade. You watched as you robotically moved to slice your arm again, feeling completely disconnected with your actions.

You looked down at your wrist, and watched in fascination as blood pooled around the first cut. Though this was certainly not the first time you had harmed yourself, the enjoyment – if you could even call it that – of watching the blood pour out hadn’t stopped yet. Watching bright red stain your snow white skin made you feel good in ways it definitely shouldn’t.

Unfortunately, the pain no longer brought the escape it once held, leaving you with just another wound to clean up after. You kept slashing at your wrists, your legs, anywhere that wouldn’t be too noticeable, in hopes of feeling better; of having a way to cope once more.

No fifteen year old should have to be alone, like you felt. No fifteen year old should hate themselves like you do.

And yet, you couldn’t even help it.

You sighed, setting the razor blade back under your pillow. Not that you’d even have to worry about anybody finding it. You slowly raised yourself to your feet, from your bed, and analyzed your room. The walls were pink, like cotton candy, fluffy clouds, and innocence; reminiscent of your days as a little girl. It was the color of your hair and the pillow you hide your razors under, something you’ve always found ironic.

You moved out of your room mechanically, towards the bathroom, to repeat the same steps as the last time.

Turn the faucet on. Rinse off the blood. Watch the blood go down the drain. Wish it was taking your problems with it. Turn faucet off. Dry off arm. Put on long sleeve shirt. Turn off light, leave bathroom.

You sighed, laying back down into your bed, sinking into the mattress. You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, you wanted to feel something, but instead all you could do was staring at your brightly colored walls. You felt nothing, except for maybe hatred of yourself.

You thought of Ino and Naruto, two of the only true friends you’ve ever had. Except, of course, that Ino had left you long ago, and Naruto only got close to you because he thought you were pretty for a while.

Your thoughts traveled to Sasuke, and your love for him that had since faded. Not because your feelings had expired, but because you didn’t know if you were capable of feeling anything anymore. When you realized you were just going through the motions of talking to him, you stopped trying.

You thought of how you wished he would’ve kept trying, even though you stopped.

You thought of how nobody seemed to want to stick around long enough to make you feel like they mattered. Nobody seemed to care enough. You thought of school, and all of the shitty people who treated you terribly, starting your cycle of self-hatred. You thought of your parents and your grades and your future. How you didn’t think you’d have a future. How you were just so pitiful and pathetic that nothing you could do would ever account for anything, so why did it matter?

You thought until you couldn’t stay awake any longer, and fell asleep, your newest cuts already starting to scar.

..

You opened your eyes slowly to the same pink walls you did every day, taking in the otherwise blandness of your room. You sat up, wincing at the pain that shot through your left arm. Rubbing your arm awkwardly, you walked into your bathroom to look at the damage, knowing nobody would interrupt you.

You peeled off the bandages you had put on your wrist the previous night, studying your arm. The cuts you had made were healing decently, you thought with disdain. One of the only things that could get to you anymore was when your cuts healed properly.

You loved looking at the scars on your body. You loved tracing the lines, and remembering why they were there in the first place. Be it a memory, an event that took place the day of, or just general wrongness, you loved it.

If you were to be honest with yourself, you would be alright with admitting that it was the only thing that kept you feeling human.

You absentmindedly picked at the scabs forming on the fresh cuts, bubbles of blood popping out from your skin as you stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your once bright emerald eyes now held a shade of dullness, no longer full of life. Similarly, your pink hair used to be shiny and fluffy, but you no longer put the effort into making yourself look nice. What was the point? Your skin looked to be almost gray in certain lighting, you were incredibly pale. Nearly black bags hung under your eyes, showing your exhaustion and lack of proper sleep habits. You’d lost weight – an unhealthy amount of it, as if you lifted up your baggy shirt you could count all of your ribs. You looked like death itself, and the ever present scars on your body didn’t help to prove otherwise.

You traced your fingers over scars from previous encounters with the blade, smearing the fresh blood on your frail forearm. Your left wrist was practically all scar tissue, at this point, hidden behind long sleeved shirts and jackets, never letting anybody else see. As you traced over each and every scar left over, you thought of why they were there.

Getting abandoned. Getting bullied, harassed. Feelings of loneliness, loss, of being forgotten and neglected. Your own self-hatred fueling the fires of your classmates and friends. Sasuke.

Wounds never fully healed, and you knew that. They would leave behind scars, marring your skin with different tissue and coloration. Though now, after years of marking your body with its own scars, you knew that wounds left a lot more just physical changes.