Short Story: Friendship of the knife

A/N: So this is not like my other blog posts. It’s 2.30 AM here and I can’t sleep, so I started writing stuff. I wrote a very short story about mental illness that I’d like to share with you all. 

Warning: This story contains thoughts of suicide, depression and cutting. Do not read if these things are triggering for you.


A big dark cloud hangs over your head, smothering you wherever you go. You try to shake it, but it’s attached to you like glue. It’s hard to breathe or to think straight, it almost feels as if you’re drowning on dry land. You want to cry, but there are no tears left to shed, you just feel numb in the end.

Why is everything so hard and painful? Why does it feel like there is nothing good left in this world?

“You need to look at the bright side of life,” they tell you, but what does that even mean when you know there is no bright side?

“It gets better,” they say, but they’re liars. It doesn’t get better, nothing ever gets better.

You look at yourself in the mirror and hate the face staring back. All you see is the face of a weak, disgusting, worthless person. You might as well be dead, no one would care.

You stare down at the razor in your hand, the only ‘friend’ you have. This razor would never hurt you, never betray you, it listens to you and only you, obeying your every command. You look down at your arms and see the rows of straight lined scars, the only thing you like about yourself. You try to resist, but you need this, need the control it offers. The razor is pressed against your arm now, waiting to be used. You cut once, twice and then one last time and admire the three fresh wounds and the blood flowing. It’s always a euphoric feeling that accompanies this, for a little while at least, but you always come down from the high. You take a towel and press it to the wounds, enjoying the sting.

No one understands why you do this or why you feel like this. You are alone in the world and there is no one that can help you. You wish you could die, but you haven’t mustered up the courage to do it yet. One day, you tell yourself, one day you’ll make sure it’s your last day. That would be a good day.

You have no friends anymore, they all left you in favor of shinier, happier people. They blamed you for becoming this way and didn’t understand why, because they all thought your life was roses and sunshine. And maybe it is, but you can’t help feeling the way you feel.

You crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling. Thoughts swirling in your head, none of them making sense.  The ticking of the clock gets on your nerves, but you have no energy to get up and turn it off. There is a knock on your door; it’s your mother.

“I’m going for a quick trip to the store, I’ll be back soon,” she calls out; you ignore her and wait for her footsteps to fade away. You don’t like being around people; they make you itch for your razor. Solitude is preferable.

You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come, no matter how much you want it too, and worse yet, the empty feeling has returned, overpowering the euphoria you felt from using your trusted razor blade. The corners of your eyes sting with tears, but you refuse to let them out; crying makes you feel even worse.

“You need to let it out or it’ll consume you. Write it down, everything you’re feeling. It might make you feel better, make you feel less alone,” the psychiatrist told you. That was weeks ago and you hadn’t followed her advice, but maybe you should. It couldn’t make you worse, could it?

You get out of bed and walk over to your desk. You grab a piece of paper, a pen and start writing, and once you start, you find you can’t stop.

Everything you kept bottled up for so long comes out through the power of words. The emptiness, helplessness and suffocating feelings all come out on paper. The anger and hurt you’ve been feeling, the razor that’s your only friend; that piece of paper knows it all now, and it doesn’t judge.

You write for hours; everything you have kept inside for so long, and in the end, you do feel a little bit lighter. You’re not cured, not by a long shot, but maybe this would be the start of the road to recovery.

A/N: To comment, go to the box on the bottom where these words are above it: Geef Een Reactie, then write the comment and then click Reactie Plaatsen. Thanks

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