Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Not difficult to do.

It is okay.

Wandering into the school bookstore like any other student - except, feeling pairs upon pairs of eyes being trained on me, staring at my back, staring at my quivering fingers, while I am heading to the back of the little store.

Passing the racks of pens, highlighters, more pens, ink refills, erasers, yet more pens. Passing the boxes of post-its, glue sticks, blunt scissors, paper clips, rolls of tape. Passing the stacks and stacks of writing pads, journals, notebooks, graph paper pads, even more writing pads.

To the corner where art supplies are kept.

Paintboxes, paint, paintbrushes, so much paint. Pencils of varying shades, colouring pencils, canvases, cloth, and there.

Bending down and tilting my head to get a better look at the metal.

Costs a dollar or two for a single penknife with a few snap-off blade refills, costs seventy or eighty cents for ten refill blades in a pack - who the hell cares about the price.

Picking up the cheapest - and the one that looks similar to the ones used two years back, and heading back to the front of the store. The cashier - she always smiles and comments some little bright happy thing about her customer's purchase, like a spare apron if she forgot it for cooking lesson, or a roll of tape if she needed to tape something up for class decorations.

She glances at my purchase, however, and glances back at me. In that very fleeting moment, I see the question in her eyes, bubbling on the tip of her tongue, her lips tense as though she longs to spill the words what are you going to do with so many blades. But she remembers they sell it in the store for a reason, that anyone can buy it, and swallows the noises about to trip off her mouth.

Passing me the little packet of metal while I hand her a dollar coin. Getting back some spare change, and I stuff the coins and packet into my wallet.

Walk like nothing's happened.

No one knows you've got ten snap-off blades in a packet in your hand.

No one knows.

Feeling the eyes being attracted to me, though, their questioning looks boring holes into my back and arms and hands and face and hair and legs and everywhere I am exposed to the world.

Hide.

I do so and stuff the blades into my bag and pretend nothing has ever happened.

~~~~~~

Left untouched for some days.

I am afraid my mum will see. But one day, she falls asleep early and my dad is outside doing some work which he concentrates on, fully, so I pull the packet out and rattle its contents.

Metal bumps against soft plastic in a satisfactory manner.

I pull the tape off its plastic body and pluck a blade out. It smells like tense rubber.

Surveying the shine of the blade and checking the sides of it, just to make sure, and sure enough, there is another piece of cold metal stuck to it.

Luckily, I remember the foolish times where I used two blades instead of just one because they had stuck together, and I remember the strange feeling of bluntness it creates when it pulls across its tight surface.

I roll a sleeve of my shorts up - my left thigh - and caress each and every one of the newly-grown skin there. Bumps that look like scratches, raised, new skin grown over old wounds.

Scars.

I angle the blade - ready to strike at its newest target - and pull it across. My hand is unsteady, however - two years off the habit has gotten me to forget the feel of quick pulls and the sting of pain and red.

The habit has gone, I note, and attempt another slice.

This time it draws a bit of red out, but it isn't enough. Not painful, not bright enough.

I try on another spot, on another scar, and this time the red seeps out in wonderful droplets that gather on the surface. The sting is just right, and it lingers, even after I've wiped the red off to taste it on my fingers and slid the blade back into its packet and slotted it into my pencil case.

~~~~~~

Soon, fresh blood stains the dark, black fabric of my school shorts.

Pain is a form of catharsis, too.

A form of escaping feelings that bubble and rise and scream and boil, even though there is nothing for me to be sad about.

The lack of feeling is what brings the feelings back.

Too empty, and the emotion, the rush, comes to sting and prick and bite.

Too much, and you crave escape.

Pain is a form of catharsis, too.