7-6-2002

Title: Lent
Author: Tahlia
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Warnings: Refference to cutting.
Author's Notes: This idea just popped into my head when I was reading at five in the morning. It's weird.

 

My eyes are drawn to the blades. The unforgiving, yet wholly accepting tools, are the only captivating feature of the sparsely furnished room. They're just sitting there on the table, a bit of light from the lamp reflecting off their smooth metal surface to create a buttery slash across the wall.

The compelling instruments have been given up for lent. I'm not sure why. I'm not a religious man. Most would assume that I am, what with the pseudo priestly garb and all. What can I say? Appearances can be deceiving. Who would guess I wear them in honor of the only father figure I'll ever know? Of course they'd assume that I am a devoted student of the holy way that has been pulled away from his religious studies to do my part in a higher cause. What a contradiction.

Who could ever know that the cool bit of silver under my shirt, warmed by my skin, isn't a symbol of faith but a constant reminder of what's been lost? Oh, to feel cold steel against my skin. I long for it.

If I'm not religious, why then have I given up my blades for lent? Maybe it's my twisted method of pulling myself away from a destructive behavior. That makes sense. My subconscious has always found a way to think of things to help me out without telling me that's what it's doing. I just get crazy ideas from time to time that I have to see all the way through.

 

I have to stop looking at them. The temptation, the longing to just throw away this idea as a crazy whim is too great. People would think I'm crazy. Who in their right mind would subject themselves to this pain? Why would anyone turn to a form of masochism to deal with life's harsh realities? It's so easy to criticize, to look down on those that turn to a method of coping beyond their comprehension. That's why the blades have to be kept a secret; at least, their purpose does. Besides, what terrorist wouldn't have some kind of weapon with them? It doesn't matter really, who would look that hard?

Stop staring at them. They don't help. Not really. Sure, they provide a momentary escape from life. So what? They don't provide any long term solutions; they offer only quick escapes and fleeting moments of a false control over my own life. It's not enough that I claim control of other's lives, of their destinies. I have to have mine as well. Yeah, that's gonna happen.

I need to put the blades away. I don't need them. I'm not dependent on them, not yet anyway. What kind of person becomes dependent on a bit of steel? Not me. I'm stronger than that. I am. Why is that little voice in my head laughing at me? Don't think I can do it? Well, fuck you. I don't need your confidence. Look at that. The purest form of masochism, beating yourself up in your head. That's where it all starts. If I don't understand myself, how can I expect it of others. Who would waste their time trying to figure out someone like me, anyway? There's nothing to figure out, right? I'm happy when I'm happy. I'm angry when I'm angry. I'm sad when I'm sad. Can't get much simpler. I'm such an open book that no one notices that they know absolutely nothing about me.

The blades know me. They know my tears. They know my pain. They know my story. They know my dark side. They know my murderous side. They've only skimmed the surface of my skin, but they've plunged into the hearts of my enemies. Who could ever predict that a piece of molded metal could be so useful? They are the only things I permit getting close enough to see the real me. Nothing else will see me in all my intricacies. The blades see me laugh, cry, kill, joke, and play. They see me at my breaking point. They see me when all is right with the world - as right as it can be anyway. They see me when I'm absolutely nothing, and when I am degrees of everything. They know me the way only an inanimate object without thoughts or emotions can.

Enough of this dark rambling of thoughts. I'm not a sick person. Really, I'm not. I have my up days and my down days, just like everyone else. I'm just in one of my moods. Saying good-bye to the best source of comfort I've found yet is a little hard for me. A farewell must be said though, I'm no masochist. I'm going to get hurt enough in this damn war, why get such a self defeating head start?

 

The blades are gone. I should feel uplifted or utterly lost. I should feel better or immeasurably angry. I should feel like I've accomplished a great moral feat, or like weeping for days. So then, why do I feel nothing?

~fini~