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This is a story I started back in November. Was looking for some feedback. Depending on the reviews I get for the prologue depends on weather I post more or not, so please please let me know what you think.

Prologue

He sat in the bathtub, lathering soap over his strong body to wash himself. He took a few handfuls of water, splashing it over his arms and legs, chest and back, letting the soap run off. Next, he squirted a small bit of shaving cream into his palm, rubbing his hands together and then pressing them to the stubble that was growing out on his chin. He sighed a sad sigh as he picked up his razor to shave off the unwanted hair. He stopped short though, just staring at the blade intently. His life had hit an all time low. He was depressed, thought nobody knew it. He hid it well. With another sigh, he shook his head to clear it, bringing the razor to his chin, gliding it down in gentle motions across his face. When he was finished, he swished the blade back and forth in the tub of hot water so that the small hairs would be freed. As he was about to set it back on the bathtub ledge, next to the bar of soap, he stopped, bringing it back towards him again. He stared down at the blade with definite interest, running his finger across the surface a few times. He’d heard of people being cutters, to escape mental and emotional problems that they were facing. He’d also heard that, as long as the cuts didn’t become too deep, or in the wrong places, it wasn’t a dangerous or unhealthy habit. He wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he was thinking of trying it. Maybe the physical pain would wash over the emotional pain and desperation he was feeling lately.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to fall at the scary thought of what he was considering doing to himself. He could feel his body start to shake, his shoulders trembling slightly. He opened his eyes, staring at the blade again. How had his life gotten so out of hand? How had he become so depressed? How had he lost control of his own life. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d truly been happy. All he knew was that he had to do something. Something himself. Something that nobody else knew. He didn’t want anybody to know his sadness. He was doing such a good job of faking a happy front in front of his family, friends, and especially the group. He planned on keeping it that way. No, this was something he had to take care of himself, and it had come to this, for nothing else had worked, including the over-the-counter depression pills he’d bought.

He started to take the blade to the side of his
arm opposite his wrist with a shaky hand, but drew back. He took in a sharp, jagged breath, wondering if he’d lost his mind. He didn’t want to resort to this, but he felt that there was no other way. If he followed through, he’d have to find a way to hide the cut. Him and the Boys had a meeting the next morning. Beings it was winter, a and fairly cold, he figured hiding the fresh cut wouldn’t be hard. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly took the blade back to his arm again, pressing firmly against it, sliding it across the surface. He vowed that he would only do it just this once.

At first, the pain was immense, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. But after awhile, the cut started to feel good. He opened his eyes, seeing blood seeping through the intentional, fresh wound. He smiled in satisfaction, feeling happy that he now had control over something in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly been happy until this moment.

He examined the cut as he carefully set the razor down. He watched with interest as the blood, his blood, slowly stopped escaping the cut. He put his arm under the water, the blood clouding to the surface of the water, then dissolving completely. When he was sure the small cut, which he estimated to be about an inch long, wouldn’t bleed any longer, he brought his arm back up.

Standing up, he grabbed his towel, drying off. He stepped out of the tub, draining the water out of it, then slid into his flannel pajamas. He still couldn’t believe what he’d done. He knew that it was self abuse, yet it had given him a tingling sense of sickening pleasure. It had hurt, yet oddly felt good to him. He told himself that he wouldn’t do it again, that it was just a one time thing. That he would find another way to become happy again. A safer way. Little did he know, it would become something he was addicted to doing.