My Mask

The sudden impact of the car as it hit the tree crushed my leg and arm, sending me into a whirl of pain. The pain ran through my bones, screamed through my veins, and writhed through my muscles. I screamed in agony as I felt my femur and ulna crack and break against the giant tree. It burned and ached under the skin and when I looked down I saw the cream of my shattered bones glaring at me, from above my skin.
The second impact of the ute as it smashed into my drivers’ side door, ripped deeper into my skin. The bull bar cracked my skull, and through my glaze of blood and tears I saw that the car was on fire. The flames licked at my feet, then opened their jaws to engulf me. They raced up my legs, and I couldn’t move. The same seatbelt that saved my life now trapped me to my seat. I thought I was going to die. I screamed and screamed until I had no more voice. The fire had now reached my face, and all of my clothes had either been burned off or melted into my skin. The fire reached for my hair and face, and I could feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. The last thing I remember before passing out was a man running towards the car screaming for help. But his voice seemed so far away…
I woke up in the hospital screaming in agony. The fire under my skin was intermingled with antibacterial solution. It wailed through the bandages as the nurse came hurriedly in. I couldn’t see anything. Was I blind? That was the thought that rushed through my head, spinning and swirling, nearly knocking me out as the consequences of my poor driving hit me harder than the tree. I was told by my parents that I was lucky I was alive and that I should be grateful for what I had left… What was left? The doctors had had to remove one of my arms, and my left leg, from the knee down. I would learn to walk again, using prosthetics. That was what the doctors said. My face was damaged beyond recognition. At 16 my face was wrinkled and torn, with skin hanging everywhere. The plastic surgeon tried his best, but it was beyond hope and help.
My recovery took the best of 10 months, where I learnt to walk again, write again and smile at my situation. The last one was the hardest. Slowly, I slipped into the oblivion of depression, which readily enveloped me. I became a shell of myself. I didn’t revel in the warmth and glow of the sun anymore, instead I cursed its ability to shine so bright, rather than hide behind the grey clouds, the way my sunny deposition now hid. Mum and Dad started to worry about my mental and emotional recovery, and hushed whispers with the doctors became frequent. One day I came to the realisation that I couldn’t let my disability affect the way I acted. Yes, I was still depressed. That’s not something that just goes away over night. But I was drawing my parents into the void of depression with me, and I couldn’t have that. School was coming back in a few weeks. I had to be there. I had to. No one could know about my depression. The day I came out of rehabilitation smiling, I saw the first true look of relief and happiness on my Mum’s face. She was too relieved to see the aching sadness and the tears just below the surface of my façade. So was Dad.
The day I went back to school was probably the hardest of my life. Of course, everyone already knew, but that didn’t stop the curious stares. My story was the same, I was drunk, I hit a tree and now I was recovering slowly but surely. My smokescreen of happiness remained, through the day, only coming down when I was home alone. The emotional pain was so rich and strong, I couldn’t bare it. I looked up from my hands to my room and the first thing I saw was a screwdriver that I had recently used. Without thinking I reached for it and raised it to my wrist. I knew physical pain was easier to deal with than emotional pain, and my emotional pain was so high. But I couldn’t cut my wrists. Someone might see it. The tops of my arms were too visible as were my thighs. My hand subconsciously ran over my hip and the thought clicked. That was the perfect place. No sight. The screwdriver only grazed the skin the first time, but the release of pain was good. I could feel my emotional pain dissipating as the blade sliced again and again. The first sight of blood was a rush of emotional relief, the first I had felt in a long while. Not only was the pain gone, but I had a certain amount of clarity about my life. If I could reach this sense of euphoria every time, I figured it would be a good way to have some emotion.

So that was the way my high school years passed, behind a façade of acceptance and contentment. Everyday when I got home, that same screwdriver greeted me with its gleaming sharpness.

Never did I get sick from it, well not physically.
My emotional pain actually increased.
I became addicted to cutting myself.

Cutting isn’t something dirty, it’s a scared persons escape.
I was scared, I just didn’t know it.