Hurtful Times

“I miss you.” I say as I stroke her soft, pale skin. Her long, light hair. It should have felt soft and warm. Yet it only feels hard and cold. I lie back onto my bed, her photo laughing at me from the screen. A horrible look. A horrible laugh of my pain. She was gone now. And it was my fault. It all should have been one of those romantic times, like the stuff you see in movies and on TV. If only I didn’t fuck it all up.
But that’s exactly what I did. There is a gentle knock on my door. I want it to be her. For her to come in and pin me on the bed and kiss me and let me touch her once more. But why should she come back? I had loved her, but had she ever truly loved me? Probably not, but those are the questions I keep asking myself. Even after two long years. I should have moved on. Found another, prettier, nicer girl. But I can’t. She is me. She shaped me to who I am today. She is the reason I am me. I want to say I hate her. But do I really? Do I? I don’t know.
The knock rings on my door.
“It’s open.” I call out to whoever is at the door. I don’t really care though. The door pushes open. My friend stands there. He looks over to my computer and back at me. He shakes his head as he moves and sits at the bottom of my bed.
“You’re not still thinking about her, are you?” He asks me. I sigh, seeing no sense for a word. “C’mon mate. It’s been a long time. She don’t love you.”
“I know.” I push myself up and lean against the wall. “It’s just.” I consider it for a moment. Do I do it? Keep it secret? What’s the point anymore?  I pull up my sleeve. A long red one. My arm is sore and bruised. Though all of that is covered by the scars and the cuts. Long strips moving up and across my arm, a large, attempted, heart on my wrist. Some older than others.
“Fuck me.” My friend exclaims. “Why’d you do this?” He asks.
“Why do we do anything?” I reply.
“Have you told anyone yet?”
“Not yet. No.” I pull my sleeve back down.
“How long have you been doing this?” He asks me, grabbing hold of my arm, almost in anger.
“Please, please don’t touch. It hearts.” My eyes try to water. They can’t anymore. I feel no pain. I need no help. “Not that long.”
“I don’t believe you.” He says, pulling his hand away.
“Don’t believe me then.” I tell him. I stand and walk towards my computer. I stare at the screen for a long, long moment. She is here. She is in my room once again. In the reflection I see my friend reach under my pillow. He pulls out my knife. Rusted with flakes of orange and red. I laugh. Like an insane man. I’m not insane though, you can trust me on that one.
“What’s this?” He asks me. I turn, switching my screen off in the process.
“That?” I say, like I had not seen him take it out from behind my bed. “I don’t know what that is. Never seen it before.”
“Never?”
“Well, it’s a knife. I’ve seen one of them before, yes.”
“Why is it in your room?”
“It was her. It was all her!”
“No, it was not her.”
I walk to my window. There she is. Walking home from school. Her hair is tied back today. She always looked much prettier with her hair down, but then again I think all girls look prettier with their hair down.  I push open the window. It’s a hard window to open, stiff and hard. I’m not sure why. It has always been like that. I try to shout. My mouth is open already. She is there. I see her glance up. But we make no eye contact. She just turns to her friend and giggles at a ‘hot’ boy on the other side of the road. I fall down to the ground. My friend leaps up and tries to catch me. I reach up for the knife. I hold the cold blade in my hands.
Maybe I can actually cry. Maybe I can.