Mechanical Pencils

 This, right there was my "weapon" of choice. It started out by accident, I didn't meant to discover it. But I did. And thus a seemingly never ending cycle of pain began. Here's the story

I was in school, and wanted to write something on my hand so that I wouldn't forget it. But I didn't have any pens with me. all I had was a mechanical pencil, similar to the one pictured here. So I took it and tried to write on my hand. Now, normally, you can't write on your hand with pencil. It doesn't show really. Well, I didn't really have any other option so I pressed as hard as I could and basically scratched what it was into the first layer of skin on my left hand. And...it worked. A few weeks later, I found myself in the same position...in need of a pen. And without one. So I did it again. But as I did it this time, I found that I...well...that I liked it. And thus the cycle began.

I took to taking the pencil and pushing down on the soft fleshy area of my hand and dragging it back and forth until a thin red line appeared. I found that as I did this, clumps of soft skin would come off with it. Leaving behind a perfectly straight indent on my hand. I liked it, I liked the light pain it provided and thought it felt cool, when I'd run my other hand over the line. So I did it again...and again. However, I would only do it after the first one had healed, as soon as the first line would heal I'd make another one, right beside it. Soon I had a collection of them. And as I type I can still see them. The newest one, done nearly a month ago...is still there. I still healing as each time they'd heal, I'd pick at the scabs. The newest one, was the deepest one. The one that formed the largest scab, the one that took the longest to heal. The one that bled each time I'd touch it. The newest one, is also the largest SCAR that I have on my left hand. I now have a collection of  scars. And yes, they are in fact scars. All in a row, quite obvious really. And since they are scars, they will NOT go away. Ever. I don't mind really, for they remind me of how depressed I was. how far I sunk. They make me realize that I don't ever want to go there again. They make me realize how lucky I was that i didn't take it any further than that. Thankfully, I'm afraid of pain. Physical pain, it sickens me. However this...this wasn't enough to sicken me...but it was enough to satisfy my wants.

In a way, its a lot like cutting. Actually...its just like cutting. But with a pencil. Who would have thought that someone could do bodily harm using a pencil? And even if they did...they probably didn't imagine using it the way I did.

A few people noticed. A few people asked. But I always found something to blame it on. Either my cat, the dog, or heck..even sledding. However, each time I'd lie...I'd find that I would forget what I had told the last person, and I began to hope that they never compared answers. (But doesn't that usually happen when you lie?) Heck my Mom even asked me, but what did I tell her? "It was the dog" Sadly enough...she believed me.

Heck everyone fricking believed me! Have I gotten to be that good of a liar? Or have people just stopped caring. I take that back. Not everyone believed me, everyone but one at least. She never believes me when I lie, she always seems to know that I'm lying. And in a way, I'm grateful for that. Its nice to know that someone knows me well enough to know when somethings wrong, when something's not quite right...when I'm lying. Its nice to know that someone actually knows the real me...and isn't just taking everything I say at face value.