"Just a minute, mom." My small plump lips called out from upstairs while I was in my after chronic pain. Drips of blood satisfyingly poured out of my palm and I continued to watch the light red drops that flowed down my arm in fascination.
In my eyes, these drips were a release of my emotions that my body got rid of. With the view of the entire stunning Seattle city in front of me, I couldn't decipher the happy feeling of pain; is it a bliss or a disease? For me, it did not make any slight difference. My parents didn't know that I do this every day because they didn't understand the beauty of my skin mixed with blood; it was an abomination of sincerity and vulnerability that emotions could cause.
The bright lights and white walls that the glass window in front of me reflected from my wide empty-spaced room was also a sight to behold after my obsession with blood.
Surprisingly, mom came into my room and saw me sitting in front of my huge glass opaque window with my red hair covering my face and blood dripped into the violet mattress I sat on. She never came into my room and I found that odd. My mother gasped when she stepped beside me and stared at my palm and blood trails.
"We are doing something about this," her voice cracked in desperation and I smiled at the radiance of pain infiltrated to me, it was dark art and it was what I only had. Me, myself and blood. The idea of me taken by my mom to some other hospital for the third time suttled me into deep thoughts and sad intentions. A part of me screamed for more divine dark ideas and another just wanted to disappear from this world.
I used to crack my ankles purposely by bashing it onto the metal railroads and the people of my school stared at me and some called the school's administration to come to watch my lunatic happiness by the usual euphoric pain, they tried everything to settle me down but I was an angry pain lover tide that broke all of the surf-boards.
I only liked Seattle when it was dark and I only ever loved the night sky and the dark moon at midnight. A
part of me liked to watch criminals and haunted patches of small gardens. My parents, they were kind but stupid enough to think that they would bring out a happy side of me. They tried and tried, I didn't like that and decided on that pathway, their frustration gives me the energy to draw more blood out of my wrists.
The best part was that I never did it to myself, I allowed my disease to lead me more.
