Death of a Soul
By Hashim Sohail

March 3rd, 2008


The blade feels cool against my warm skin; I can feel the blood curdling in my veins; my hearts thumps louder each second. I clench my fist as I drag the edge across my wrist; letting the feeling of pain engulf me; I let out a deep sigh watching the tiny beads of blood turn into masses, coloring my wrist with the color of love. I bask in the glory of amnesia, not a thought runs through my head. I feel as if my body is naught but a gentle breeze, dancing through flowers, etched in fragrances unknown. The breeze like feeling fades in a flash. I hear a murmur by the foot of the stairs, my gaze drifts across the room; I hurry to close my bedroom door. I can hear footsteps approaching my room. Hastily, I wipe up as much blood from my wrist as I can; the pain of the cut stinging now, my eyes start to tear. I quickly pull down my sleeve and throw the razor under my bed just as the bedroom door opens. My momís head pops into view. She says something about homework, I donít hear her, all my concentration is being used to control my tears. As the open wound touches the insides of my sleeve, throbbing pain fills me up.
I watch my mother leave with discontentment upon her face. I rush to close my door again and let my sleeve up. I examine the cut closely; I see that itís the deepest Iíve gone yet. I can now almost see the trace of muscle tissue. Or at least I think I can. The pain is piercing; I can barely feel my arm. But I somewhat like it. It makes me feel special. I run my hand over old scars, feeling the roughness collide with my fingertips, caressing the seams that hold my life in. These scars mean more than what you think; each one of them is a memory of hate; a memory of love, of passion, of misery; a memory of every person that ever ridiculed me, of every soul that ripped apart mine, of every lesson left untaught and every tear that I have caused.
***
It wasn't like I wanted to die, It was just the fact that the pain was getting to a point where I couldnít think anymore, couldnít feel. [Each cut marked upon my skin kept me alive to the point I was.] I needed to numb the pain...
I had forgotten to cry, forgotten to laugh, forgotten to love, forgotten to care.
The truth is that, if one person, just one person had smiled at me that day, I would've had the strength to keep on living. I would've had the strength to keep holding on. Just a smile, that's all I asked for.
The reality is that, all of you who build yourselves up by destroying others, will realize that the real world won't care about what you were in high school , they won't care whether you were prom queen, or captain of the basketball team. The world cares about more than that.
And to the kids who don't need to hurt others to feel good, you're destined for greatness, you just have to find it in yourselves.
You read this, with a million thoughts passing through you. You may think Iím a freak; no, you doubtlessly think Iím a freak. I mean what sort of human being cuts himself. Why would anybody talk to someone like that? Right? You are probably saying, ďWow what an attention seeker,Ē (which is not true, at least not in the way youíre thinking it to be). You make assumptions about me before you even get to know me; would you be even bothered as to know why I used to cut myself? Would you care if I told you of the pain that I was in? No, you wouldnít, because all that you cared for was amusing yourself at the sake of my sanity; you cared for watching me crumble, destroying everything that I had been trying to build on; contorting my faith in humanity to a point where it was irreversible. Leading me to a belief that every moment I had hoped, wished, and desired had been an acceptance to the fact that I was alone.

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