It hurt, a lot

The first time I hurt myself, I was seventeen. It was an accident, really—I didn't mean to wander into that room. Like most seventeen-year-olds, I'd been feeling misunderstood and forlorn, anxious and angry. That night was particularly dark, no moon shone in the sky, no stars managed to pry their way through the thick cover of clouds. I'd gone to the library, sneaking in through an unlocked door in the back, making my way through shelves of dimly-illuminated books. Ahead of me, I could see a light creeping out from under a door. I didn't remember that door. Curious, I'd opened it slowly, softly, pushing myself inside. Before I fully entered the space, I felt a strong sensation of hesitation. I felt that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell me to leave. I didn't leave. Curiosity killed the cat, and I was undoubtedly a cat person.

It was morning when they found me, when the librarian pushed open the door to the tiny supply closet and saw my crumpled form sitting motionless between the brooms. My parents asked what happened. I said I didn't remember. I lied. My first scar appeared soon after, an inch-long line right on my chest, right above my heart. It hurt, a lot.

The second time I hurt myself, I was twenty. It wasn't an accident, not quite. I'd been visiting home from college, spending my winter break with family and memories alike. An argument had broken out between my father and I one night, and I'd left the house in a fuming blaze to go on a walk. I was in the wrong, and I knew it, and after a while my rage was replaced with guilt. The guilt stung, it hurt, and I embraced the pain—I felt I deserved it, being such an awful daughter.

I hadn't intended to visit the library, but as I was lost in thought, my feet brought me to that building, that large brick building, and around the back to the door that used to be unlocked. I checked. Unlocked. I went in.

I couldn't tell you why I went in, I really couldn't. I think I was still curious, still dumb and curious, and I felt like I deserved more pain, so I walked in the direction of the door I'd gone through three years earlier. Sure enough, like magic, like dark magic, I soon saw the light creeping out from underneath the door. I paused before entering, asking myself, steeling myself.

I pushed inside, and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was lying on the floor of the old supply closet, empty aside from a bucket and a mop. Funding wasn't very good for the library, back then. I left the library at dawn, before most people were up, and made my way back home for reconciliation and a mug of hot coffee. My second scar appeared soon after, another inch-long line that ran across the first one, forming an 'X' over my heart. It hurt, a lot.

The third time I hurt myself, I was twenty-seven. I hadn't visited home for years, graduate school and marriage had kept me busy. It was the holidays again, and I'd brought my husband to see my hometown. We were staying with my parents, in my old bedroom, and I felt happy, happy. I felt happy, until suddenly I didn't.

I've always had issues with emotional swings, but I'd hoped the worst days were behind me. That night, I left the house in frustration with myself. I left the house and marched to the library, marched through the unlocked door, marched to the light. I was getting an advanced degree in biochemistry, and I justified my rather reckless behavior by telling myself I was merely conducting another experiment to verify and replicate the results of my previous two.

I pushed the door open. That time, I didn't lose consciousness. I could see everything with blinding clarity, except I wasn't sure what everything really was. Colors were distorted, shapes seemed magnified in peculiar manners, and hazy forms floated past me. I felt as though I'd stumbled into a surreal, absurd, messed-up painting, some demonic world designed to ensnare the curious, designed to kill cats, and I was undoubtedly a cat person. The lights were far too bright, and my eyes began to grow uncomfortable. I wondered why I didn't black out, wondered whether I'd built up some sort of tolerance to the weirdness.

I hadn't. One of the forms floated in my direction, staring without eyes, unblinking, and I felt my legs begin to crumple beneath me. I saw a knife blade flashing, I felt a sharp pain on my chest, right above my heart, right in the location of my first two scars. Something made a horrible noise, almost like a drill, and my chest began to hurt even more. There was blood, there was so much blood.

I didn't recognize my heart when they pulled it out of me. It was far too fleshy and disgusting, far too fatty. I blacked out then.

I think I woke up after that, though I'm still not quite sure. The world doesn't seem quite so real as it used to, and there are subtle differences that I can't quite describe. Maybe I'm dead, maybe I'm not quite me anymore.

There are three scars on my chest now. They hurt, a lot.