It’s a bit like choking. You try to fight at first it, but when you still can’t breathe, you start to get scared. The black starts to edge into the corner of your eyes, and you’re losing the will to try, to fight at all. The black is taking over now, more than just your vision. It sweeps throughout the entirety of your entity; a black mass that swallows you whole. A monster, much like the one underneath your bed, the one you had your mother sing away before you went to sleep when you were a child. It takes control, limb by limb, extremity by extremity, fleeting fear by fleeting fear. Breathe. You promised it wouldn’t get this far. Breathe. You promised your friends, your family.. Breathe. You promised yourself.

It’s in an instant. You grab the bright sapphire painted box, the one with the ridges on the side that you liked to dance your fingers along before eventually opening it up. A box as blue as the most beautiful sky that you could possibly imagine; such a happy color for such a damaging thing. It’s a set of twelve blades, with one handle, along with two pieces that allowed the blades to be interchanged. An instant is all it takes. The black is overwhelming now. You would do anything to escape the darkness and the fear that it brings. You would do anything. You wish you could just paint it, the way you used to back when you had finger painting projects in grade school. You would paint it every color, any color.

You would paint it red.

The initial slash is one often done without looking or restraint; the curvature of the blade digs beneath you, begging for another taste. It’s not enough to paint the black out, so you agree; another, another, another. Your faces is emotionless, staring off into the black space, begging yourself to see past that da*ned black cloud. But it’s inside, and you cannot escape. You touch the wet, sliding liquid that seems to cover your thighs. You feel for the wall, and slowly, your fingers start to preform a dance. Then the stinging appears, it collides with you, the sort of feeling you get when you want to scream but you can’t seem to move your mouth. You’re trying to focus, to see what has happened, but you’re blinded by a fog that surrounds you in the pitch black of a situation you can only see as bleak. What is this cold metallic edge that presses into your leg? It’s pressing into your neck now, and you ask it rather calmly what it’s point was, what the message is. It responds by clattering on the floor. In one loud and clamoring motion, you are awake. The blood fills your vision and you start to sob, the numbness settling in, the knowledge of that which has been done. You’re half naked in a bathroom stall, and the wall, painted in blood, reads,
“HELP.”

Change is a funny thing; it’ll rummage through your insides, and as soon as it comes, it leaves. A funny thing indeed; I was always laughing when the blood ran down my leg. I always found something to fight, something to smile about, something to laugh about; I’ve lived a life with a constant rumbling crash of emotions, much like that of a river, though mine lacked the beauty and grace. I was angry, at the world, at myself, at my entire situation. Learning to forgive was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I sure took my d*mn time doing it. I was stuck in a hole they diagnosed as depression, and when I lacked an inner voice of reason, I took to the opinions and voices of others. “I’m so sorry,” they would say, “You should get help.” But their voices lacked the sympathy I was so desperately searching for. Without guidance, I looked to the stars. But stars don’t often answer the crying prayer of a bleeding, ratty teenage boy. I don’t know what happened along the line that made me decide that I was worth it. I don’t know what happened that made me decide that I was better, what happened that made me decide my scars were beautiful, what happened that made me stand alone with pride.

“A cutter,” they said.
“A survivor,” I replied.

Five months from that day, I have been almost four months clean. Beautiful, isn’t it? The change that can occur within our hearts on cold days where the only thing that keeps you warm is the burning need to prove yourself, someone, something, anything wrong. Yeah, I got in a couple of bad fights, and yeah, my legs have the scars to prove it. And no, I didn’t really get scratched by a cat, and no, I didn’t really fall on something sharp in my room. But I got better. I took the little strength I had within myself and I wrapped that sapphire box in a plastic grocery bag with all my cigarettes and a few letters of old loved ones. I gave it to my best friend, told him to never look inside, to hide it someplace no one would ever find. He asked me why it was important, and I told him it didn’t matter anymore.

An instant is all it takes. Change is impending, and something as simple as a chance to be something more is all you need.