Scarlet Flesh: Epilogue

"Is this the end?"

Is this the end?
The end to this tale of woe and misery?
I doubt it - this journey still needs to be completed, and it falls down to me to finish what was started all those months ago.
It is the only way; the phoenix has to turn into ash in order to be reborn anew.
Perhaps this is good. Perhaps this truly is the only way for things to get better.
Until then, we'll just have to wait and see.
Merry Christmas.

Alter Bridge - Zero
Now there is a light in the dark, some will say
There is a grace up high
There is a beauty that some can behold
Not I... not I.

There is a power that's felt from the shore
There is a force that won't break
But all of these things to me are no more
I've changed... I've changed.

What in the hell have you done?
Cast aside all that you love
Sorrows you never outrun...

Zero!
Nothing for you's ever good enough!
Zero!
Nothing makes you whole...

How many times have you felt all alone?
How many tears have you cried?
Called out in vain for a god to behold,
Inside... inside.
How many fires you let die in your heart?
How many storms must you face?
Left out to fight for yourself in the cold,
No faith... no faith.

So nothing to lean on this time
Nothing is left to decide
All that you've known you deny

Zero!
Nothing for you's ever good enough!
Zero!
Nothing makes you whole...
Zero!
Nothing for you's ever good enough!
Zero!
Nothing makes you whole...

Go now, surrender
You can't take no more!
And just cry out
Surrender; your faith is no more!

What in the hell have you done?
Cast aside all that you love
Sorrows you never outrun...
Just look at what you've become!

Zero!
Nothing for you's ever good enough!
Zero!
Nothing makes you whole...
Zero!
Nothing for you's ever good enough!
Zero!
Nothing makes you whole...



(This song is not my own, it is the sole property of Alter Bridge.)
Link to "Zero", by Alter Bridge: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99ahgW5eHa4
Light at the end of the tunnel image source: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Light-At-The-End-Of-The-Tunnel-140828663
Lightning image source: http://salt4life.tumblr.com/post/26067830710/chicagos-highest-3-buildings-all-struck-with

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 10 - Fissure

"The lies and the screams and the misery have latched on..."

30th November, 14.48pm.
It grows.
A yawning, widening, gaping chasm of all the evils stored within the halls of my mind, begins to proliferate faster than I can sew it shut.
Within it, I see everything I fear; losing my friends, losing my family, even losing the ones I love.
My greatest fear is that someone will ultimately come along and send me over the edge.
It very nearly happened yesterday, when my colleagues turned against me and drove me to the precipice of insanity. I can't take it anymore.
I can't take it anymore.
I can't take it -
(Focus. Focus.
We have an article to write.)
Right, of course.
They laughed at me. I made myself vulnerable and snapped, and all they did was shrug it off and laugh.
There's no point in trying to convince them anymore - cogent arguments are lost under the banner of troll logic.
A shrill cacophony of hysteria is all I will get from them - even if I do not need it.
My mistress keeps me safe; her soothing touch liberates me from the worries I face in the real world, and keeps me hidden from those who would decry my actions should they learn of my dark history.
I know what would happen.
Should I reveal myself to the world, they'd be the first to voice their opinions. They'd be the first to dub me "an attention-seeker" who is "only doing this to be popular".
Let me tell you something, you ignorant troglodyte; if I was doing this for attention, why would I go to so much effort to keep my wounds hidden from the world?
Why would I keep myself to myself, and only tell a select few about my journey?
Idiots! Your narrow views blind you to the fact that I cannot "get over it" or "man up", no matter how many times you preach your toxic diatribes.
The rest would judge me silently, whinge about my actions the instant my back is turned. A few would stay by my side, but only a few; I know what the rest truly think.
Sometimes I can hear them. Sometimes, when I turn my back, I hear their whispers, coalescing to form a nonsensical cacophony, growing and growing and growing -
Until I am overwhelmed, and I retreat from their venomous diaspora of crude insults and outright lies.
My wrist, she burns and radiates with pain, the scars digging deeper day by day, each ramifying across my lower arm like the gnarled branches of a dying tree.
They don't know - but sooner or later, my secret will be revealed to all.
One day, I will show them, and if that won't get them to listen, nothing will.

30th November, 15.51pm.
Can't - focus.
I try to call for help, I know she will help, but my mind blocks me.
What if I am a drain on her psyche? I don't want to be a drain, I don't want to make anyone's day any worse.
So, I remain silent, murmuring half-truths and venomous words alone.
I am tainted. The lies and the screams and the misery have latched onto my flesh, digging deep and refusing to let go. Permeating into my sinews, drilling through bone and haphazardly fitting into my sanctum, I am not myself. Gone was the cheery, anti-apathetic mindset of yesterday - now, the nihilist takes its place.
Sleep is the only refuge - within, I can see memories soaked in the nostalgia which fights off misery, the antibiotic to help cure my cold. But just like in real life, it does more harm than good, exacerbating my condition further, providing me with a split second of comfort.
Deep inside, the abyss begins to grow further.
Hissing and cackling, the abyss' hold begins to tighten, gripping my heart and mind in a vice, unrelenting force applied to both, and no means of escape.
I cannot face the oncoming storm alone. No Elysian wonderlands for me to escape to - the bitter reality of my predicament has reached my doorstep, and I cannot face it alone.
15 years have led to me approaching this crossroads.
15 months have allowed this journey to take its course and culminate in December.
15 days will be enough for me to make a choice, a choice I wish I did not have to make.
Either stop my world from burning and take back what is rightfully mine - or let my life, my being and my very psyche be consumed by the fire within.
The moment is nearing. It grows ever closer, slowly but inexorably making its way to me, and I will have to decide.
Will I fail doing the right thing... or succeed in choosing the wrong path?
That now, is a story for another day.

"Great men are forged in fire.
It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame... whatever the cost."

Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Abyss-140084085

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 9 - Abyss

"The cuts are what keep me alive, they let me know I can still feel."

He's not doing too well, is he?

You don't say? Next, you'll be trying to tell me unicorns don't exist and that pigs can't fly!

Was that meant to be comedy?

No.
Look at him. He keeps on cutting, keeps on drawing ever closer to his doom. Can't he see he should just pick up his phone and tell his friend about his problems? What's stopping him?

Pride. Pride is what stops us from calling for help. We take it as a sign of weakness, as a sign that we are failing.
No one likes to be told they're failing, so he perseveres down this path. And I'm curious as to what awaits us both at the end of this.

He's not listening to us. He's shut us out, he's completely closed himself off. All our efforts are for naught.
Then again, I really can't blame him.

What else can one do, after having his work thrown in his face, after having his psyche fragment into unrecognizable fragments?
After everything I've done, all the time I spent chasing after those would never like me, after dispelling my dark past to the annals of history and persevering through everything this year had to throw at me, is anyone surprised that I am in this position?
The person you see every day is a facade, a facsimile of what he wishes to be.
I was once a different person, you know. A different, happy person.
I lived and I laughed and I enjoyed what life had to offer me. I tried my best to help those who needed it, and stood by my friends whenever they had battles they needed to fight.
I loved certain people with all my heart, but in the process learned that I need to be more careful, lest I wound my heart another time. Yet, despite that, things were great. It seemed as if everything would turn out fine.
I was proven wrong.
Month after month, week after week, day by day, my resolve was battered and broken down to the point where I do not how best to continue my life, if continue it at all, to take things to an extreme.
I am not myself. Every day I walk into school, and when I walk back out, the sense of camaraderie I share with you all dissipates, and I am left to my own devices.
Life, to me, is seen through lenses of grey - everything has become more and more lackluster to the point where I do not know if anyone is worth fighting for.
There are few - few people would I would do anything to keep in my life.
But I know that they too will ultimately leave, and I don't blame them. They have their entire lives ahead of them - college, university, jobs, marriage, and retirement. Me, I am unsure of where to go next, of what to do in the future.
So in the present, I cut. I cut and I slice and I slash until my wrists burn red and my mind is clear once more, because the knife gives me back control. It gives me back something I have been losing ever since 4 months ago, ever since everything went to hell and I was sent down the path I now walk today.
I want to turn, I want to head back and join you all, but I cannot. The voices in my head conjure illusions, they make you all seem like the bad guys, and sometimes, I wonder if they speak the truth.
I can't take it anymore. I can;t take the jokes, the banter, the pathetic, infantile attempts at humor.
I can't deal with it. Do you think I care about your jokes?
Do you think I have time for your "raps"?'
Do you honestly think I give a damn about whether I called you names or not?
I... I apologize. This is not a diatribe, that is not my objective.
This is a monologue - nothing more.
Back on track, ever since 4 months ago, I have been feeling disenchantment with the world. I began to cut myself off from those who made me happy, and I have been growing colder and colder each day.
The cuts are what keep me alive, they let me know I can still feel.
My fears, however, are something completely different.
I do not know whether the cuts are the end of my misery, or the heralds of something greater.
The scars grow deeper as the days go by, and this time, there's no happy ending, no angel to save the day, nearly no-one to fight the storm with.
For the first time, I feel... alone.
Alone, left to fend for myself and fight off my demons. I cannot.
What happened to the old me?
How did he turn into this excuse for a human being?
I cry. Slowly at first, then the tears come en masse, as I try and piece together the fragments of my life.
My enemies rejoice, and the others all laugh (save for a few).
This is it. There is no way out this time.
Now, I am alone, and there is nothing I can do to change course.
Let me sleep. Let Time carry all trace of me away from this world and your thoughts, and may you live better lives.
All I want is to be free.
Yet freedom will remain nothing but a dream, and all I will have are the bars of my cage.

Abstract image source: http://www.wall321.com/Abstract/Abstract/abstract_dark_1920x1200_wallpaper_29083

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 8 - Rage.

"I am alone, left to wander the halls of my mind..."

29th November, 11.55pm.
Unending apathy finally gives way to unending rage.
My teammates, they turn against me even now, testing the boundaries of my sanity further and further and further -
I couldn't handle it. I snapped, I screamed, and I at least attempted to make it very clear how I felt. Their reaction?
Indifference. As usual, I was dismissed, my actions masked as preparation for a Drama performance.
I tried to insist otherwise, to no avail; I was silenced once more.
I considered showing them my wrist to prove otherwise, but I chose not to; even I am not willing to show such scars now. Even then, that wouldn't work; they'd laugh and jeer, just as they did then.
The entire lesson was a living nightmare; a subject I still love was turned into a madman's cackling, eldritch experience, with me as the exhibit, the enraged animal which everyone could stare and point at.
All my arguments - dismissed.
All my points - dismissed.
All my concerns - dismissed.
Not even anger could show them how I felt. I sat back, deflated and worn out, and soaked up the last of their antics; this time, an impromptu "rap battle" took place in lieu of a true rehearsal.
Now I know my true place in the group, and it is not the place of an equal.
I am a subordinate, destined to listen only to their whims, and never my own.
I am a subordinate.
A subordinate.
Nothing more.

29th November, 16.00pm.
Nothing has changed, has it?
Despite all that's happened, the friends I've made, the people I've rekindled friendships with, at my core, I am still the same damaged being I was 4 months ago. And I show no signs of changing.
The tears, I can feel them. I hold back the tide - one gets good at hiding emotion during these times.
I sit alone, the cold breeze cutting through flesh and coat alike, delving into my core - perhaps the only sensation I'll feel until I get home.
I think of the people I know - my friends, my enemies, and both visions meld together to form one large audience - all my peers stare at me, and I am on a wide stage, the spotlight pointing down on me.
I am chained, restrained from the others, writhing helplessly, struggling to regain control.
As one, they point and laugh. I hear them all (with a few exceptions) laugh at me, doubling over in fits of hysteria.
I rant and I rage and I scream, but all it does is send them into tears of joy. There is nothing I can do, nothing I can do to get them to listen, even for a second.
The spotlight turns off, and I am back in the real world. My emotions - anger, sadness, rage, each of these are hidden beneath a blank exterior. Wouldn't want anyone to notice, now would we?
She lurks in my mind, an angelic apparition tugging and plucking away at the strings of my beating heart.
I want her to be my friend only, but my heart refuses - I cannot tell her, nor anyone else, lest I ruin things again, because ultimately, that is what I do.
I ruin and I scar and I blight people's lives through my actions, whether they be unintended or not.
I am expendable - I am useless.
Nothing more.

29th November, 20.55pm.
I begin writing Chapter 8 of "Scarlet Flesh", all whilst pondering everything that has happened today and everything that may or may not happen in the weeks to come.
The tears are beginning to emerge; my wrist glows with the beaming red I have become so accustomed to.
They laugh. My peers, they jeer and they shriek and they deride, and for what?
To satisfy their schadenfreude? Perhaps that is what it must be - I did not expect rational people to act like vultures; swooping down and picking on that which is already dead, stripping the bones bit by bit.
That is what they are doing. Day by day, I am eroded away, with bits of my confidence and general demeanor spiraling into the abyss below.
One day, I will break. I will crumple and I will warp and I will be crushed. And all they will do is laugh.
The knife is pushed inwards, sending pain radiating outwards and inwards. I wince, but I know this is the only way I can control myself, and stop myself from falling apart.
This blog, it's become so much more - it is my catharsis, the means by which I vent my frustrations and continue to function as a normal member of society.
And that's all I want - to be normal, to be like the other kids and live a happy life with a girl I love and friends I can be with.
Why can't I be normal?
Why couldn't I be born as a better person?
Why did I have to be the different one?
Why?
The words echo in my mind; puerile wishes that would never be granted, happy endings that would never be tacked on.
I am left to wander the halls of my mind, searching for answers and solutions that would never present themselves. Rifling through the memories, the old and the new, the good and bad, I find... nothing.
Nothing of use, just nostalgia and embarrassment.
Nothing of use.
Nothing.

Left alone, I can do nothing but cry
Trawl through the memories, see if the tears run dry
As comforts of past and present join and entwine
Both are ephemeral, both rest on a fault line

The fault line is anger, the triggers are my peers
Laughing at me, all I can hear is their jeers
Echoing through my being, I must make a choice
Remain silent and subservient, or show them my Voice?

The former, I'll choose, for they will never learn
The scars, they cleanse; their comments only burn
Leaving behind nothing but storms of ash
A maelstrom of decay, yet at my wrist I still slash

Nearly one year has passed, and I am back where I was
In the pits of depression, I struggle to be free from the jaws
Of apathy and misery, clamping down on my joy
I am pulled to my prison, where my flesh, I will destroy.


Source of image: http://www.freefever.com/stock/walking-in-the-rain-wallpaper-photo.jpg

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 7 - Reasons

"It shields me from the oncoming storm..."

27th November, 22.12pm.
15 cuts.
Each are not for the years of my life, nor are they reserved for any people.
The cuts all represent one aspect of me I dislike, aspects I utterly loathe and cannot stand.
I hear her calling - time to begin the cuts.

Number One - Dissonance.
The first is for my inability to be the same as anyone else; for being different.
They laugh and they mock and they jeer - all because I choose to be myself, because I dare to walk down those paths that no-one treads. I am chastised for not following the rules, and years of this has piled up and piled up and piled up to the point where I do not see the point in swimming against the tide.
Just like the salmon who migrate upstream to breed and ultimately die, I grow weary; weary of having to explain myself over and over, weary of being a punchline to my classmates.
Conformity is the safest path - perhaps over time, I will become as ignorant and as narrow-minded as them all, but until then, my mistress will guide me onto the righteous path.
Cutting into the flesh, I score the first cut. I wince; but I know where I am headed.

Number Two - Anger.
The second is for the anger which I harbor, and cannot seem to let go in a controlled manner.
People I know and people I don't know both work in tandem, always finding some way or another to torment me, whether it be through puerile grudges or to ignite old vendettas against me.
And when I lash out, it is me who always suffers the consequences.
Granted, lashing out is not healthy - but what else can I do?
When no-one will help and there's no way out, I strike out, and the world strikes back, pummeling me until I wind up in the place I am in now. Only this time, there is no way out, no happy ending.
The second joins the first - a beautifully malignant pair of fresh scars decorate my wrist.

Number Three - Shame.
Number 3 is for the guilt I feel regarding my previous exploits with former acquaintances.
I have done heinous things; horrible, despicable acts which have scarred myself and the people I care about. Even now, the ramifications of my actions still echo; not a day goes by where I am reminded of what I have done by some ignoramus or another.
Their voices echo inside, laughing and laughing and laughing -
I've had enough. The third is stenciled onto the wrist, my thoughts growing more nihilistic than before.

Number Four - Melancholy.
I know some people look upon me with disdain.
If my life up to now was an entire book, they'd read, flicking through the pages, absorbing the details, and like everyone before them, deem my existence unworthy of attention, a footnote in the grand scale of existence.
They are most likely right.
What is there to admire, what is there to be amazed at?
I do not live, and neither does anyone else - we exist, thrown into the world for reasons unknown, and denied the chance to find out why. And existence is not something I am fond of.
I want to live. I want to feel the touch of love, to be able to love someone completely and utterly, and feel the same from them.
I want to travel the world; from the Statue of Liberty to the Pyramids of Giza, I want to see the wonders of Man and how much we've accomplished.
I want to eat fine food, hang out with my friends, party all night long, live my life as I want to live it.
But I cannot.
Where other people see a frontier, I see a cage which contracts and constricts further and further, with no way out.
The trifecta of scars leave, and in their place, a quartet rests, pulsing with subdued pain.

Number Five - Love.
I cannot love without hurting someone.
Whether it be the girl who haunts my dreams, or the exes who I have fallen out with, I always make things worse.
Time after time, my heart truly makes abominable decisions - decisions which I cannot change with the flick of a switch.
I loathe this; now on top of being isolated, I have romance to deal with. And I don't want romance.
I want this nightmare to end, for the darkness to dissipate and for the apathy to vanish; but all those wishes remain wishes for a reason.
Five crimson edges sit snugly, the faintest sliver of blood beginning to trickle.

Number Six - Hate.
Vitriol and rancor both stew inside of me, waiting to be unleashed on the next unsuspecting soul who tries to dismiss me.
Already with too many people, I sense an undercurrent of arrogance and undeniable egotism. They're part of the "Millennials", otherwise known as the "Me Generation".
They don't want their beliefs to be challenged, nor do they want to change the world.
No, they are content sitting back, enjoying the spoils of their antecedents, whilst simultaneously complaining about the inertia which dominates humanity as a whole.
Do they not realize that THEY are the ones who have to instigate change, not the people of yester-year?
No matter - "Generation X" will remain blissfully ignorant, free of the constraints which molded bright futures in the years preceding the new millennium.
Six sinister, scarlet cuts adorn the flesh now - nearly halfway there.

Number Seven - Intellect.
Regardless of what anyone says, heightened intellects are a curse, one which cannot be removed without some serious head trauma.
Intelligence carries with it creativity - the ability to see things in a different light and circumvent ordinary barriers with ease. That is, until you find others find it much harder to do that, meaning they will plague you for the answers, over and over and over and over and over and -
Maybe, just maybe, you'll be extremely lucky and be treated as an alien; a living caricature to peer at and judge without remorse.
Either that, or people will hang around like a foul odor; exploiting your gifts, leeching from you and using you to further their own goals. Intelligence carries with it many dead weights which seem to never go away.
Seven perhaps isn't so lucky a number after all - the knife certainly seems to agree.

Number Eight - Corpus.
Even my body conspires against me; simple tasks which others can complete fairly easily are beyond this bumbling sack of flesh.
I am weak; the loose runt who ultimately dies in order to ensure the survival of the strong.
There are many others in my school who have it all; the looks, popularity, intelligence, good grades - each and everyone of them is set for future greatness.
And then there's me - that loose, gangrenous appendage waiting to be cut off and discarded.
Atrophy and misuse have worn me down - being whittled down in this manner has allowed nihilism to blossom within to a great degree.
Eight red marks beat and thrum in unison.

Number Nine - Hope.
This may perhaps be the crux of all my problems.
Hope keeps me going through the darkest night, it shields me from the oncoming storm and keeps me going.
Yet at the same time, it is my biggest flaw.
Hope keeps me going when I should be letting things die.
Hope stops me from moving on, and so I turn to my knife for comfort, hurting -
Crying -
Screaming -
Bleeding.
Nine now fall into place.

Number Ten - Bittersweet.
The memories haunt slowly, inexorably taking over day by day.
I cannot stop this; I have trapped myself in a most inextricable of situations.
Yearn for better days, I do - the past is the only entity which appeals to me now, because back then, things seemed far easier than they are now. People lived and laughed and enjoyed their lives, but now, life becomes more like a funeral parlor; the droves of people awaiting their ultimate fate.
The memories congeal in my mind, and on the one hand, I savor and cradle these memories - on the other, I shun them and drive them away, lest I love the past more than the future.
Ten fall from grace, donning a red complexion.

Number Eleven - Sorrow.
I cry sometimes.
I cry for the glory days, the golden era of peace and harmony - nothing seems the same anymore.
People go to sleep and the next day, they resume their petty feuds, their infantile diatribes against each other echo across the courtyard.
Now I am no longer a person - the shadow of my being is all that is left, a silent observer in this life.
Whatever happened to the old me?
Whatever happened to the pupil who somehow got on fairly well with everyone, the one who who would always remain positive, regardless of what threat?
And no matter how insurmountable, no matter how utterly impossible anything seemed, he would not be alone, for he had hope with him.
Now, he is gone, and I take his place; a ruined facsimile who can only hope to attain a sliver of his greatness.
Even now, the eleven are not enough - I wish for more pain.

Number Twelve - Failure.
A failure to do the right thing.
A failure to stand up for what I believe in.
A failure to help the defenseless, and defend the helpless.
Time and time again, I have caved to the might of others,
I have lost my faith in the band of brothers,
Which I have belonged to for many an age
But now, my heart fills with unending rage.
Twelve embellish my wrist, sending staccato bursts up and down my arm. Just three more...
Number Thirteen - Luck.No rabbit feet, four-leaved clovers or horse-shoes can help me escape this hole.
People say you make your own luck - but when you're constantly knocked down, when you always try your best to make a change, why is it that all your efforts are spat back into your face?
Everything you do, all you work for, all you create - none of that matters, not when decay and entropy will whittle you and your works down to nothing.
It will happen to me, I am certain.
My luck has run dry - Lady Luck does not look down on me today - rather, she is merely indifferent to my plight.
Thirteen - the number considered by many to be a sign of bad luck, takes its place upon my canvas, noted down with the rest.

Number Fourteen - Fire.Ever since I was little, I grew up seeing tales of heroic individuals fighting against the odds, mere men facing down unfathomable evil... and winning.
This remained the maxim for much of my life, keeping me going even when things were at their darkest - a white-hot fire inside of me which could never be doused, never be extinguished.
But now, the flames grow dim. My mistress saps the life from me with each passing day, slowly, inexorably tying me down to my ultimate fate.
With the fourteenth down, I move to my final stroke - the greatest flaw within my wounded psyche.

Number Fifteen - Myself.
Now, my greatest flaw is not my anger.
It is not my avarice and my inability to share.
Nor is it the undying beacon of hope within my heart which refuses to be snuffed out.
The answer is both simple, yet glaringly obvious; my greatest flaw is myself.
I am not the ubermensch I wish to be - rather, I am the weakling that no-one wants to be.
I am the outcast, the loner, the weirdo.
The one who never stops questioning, who approaches problems differently.
I am the bane in everyone's side, a constant, nagging tumor which feeds off others' misery.
I hate what I have become, but how can I stop?
How can I stop heading down this dark path, when it was these people who drove me down it in the first place?
In what seems like a very long time ago, I wasn't like this.
I had dreams to pursue, people to love, a life to live. Now, for reasons unknown, I am a shell, a pathetic reminder of what I could never be.
Each day I return home and let the apathy cloud my mind and shield me from everything and everyone - not that many would understand. To them, this lengthy diatribe is nothing more than a plea for attention, a boy crying wolf on the World Wide Web.
Little do they know - their very whines are what sent me down here.
And now, instead of looking forward to the next day, I tolerate it.
There are very few people who I enjoy spending time with - the rest, I know they jeer at me behind my back. And sometimes, I can't take it.
I go home, and I replay their mocking jokes, their unreasonable demands, and I cry.
I cry because I know it was my fault that I wound up here.
I cry because I am a bumbling fool who can never get anything right.
I cry because every time someone good comes into my life, I immediately do something to drive them away, and then I wind up the same as before - alone and destitute.
Now, I have the knife to help comfort me. She makes feel so much better - whatever the price, she always aims to please.
With her, I find I am not alone - her demeanor, her alluring nature draws me ever closer to the edge of the abyss.
I stare down, and lo, something - or someone stares back.

Fifteen cuts, each unique and glistening
You fool, I don't even know if you're listening
Cut further, strike further, until you begin to bleed
Don't listen to him - let hope plant its seed

Shut up, the both of you; can't you see I'm at peace?
We're here to help - nah, I want to break that piece
Of happiness and love and everything you hold dear
Watch life take its toll, watch your end draw near

Please, just listen! I'm trying to save
You from misery, and help you see the gifts you gave -
The gifts of misery, pain and suffering which my friends know are from me?
Go away - both of you have managed to help me see

See what? See what? That you're a bloody loon?
That cutting is the only way I'll be free so soon
I will hurt no-one, and my friends will be safe
When I'm six feet under, deep inside my grave.

Source of image: http://www.boston.com/community/photos/raw/2008/08/how_i_got_the_picturescott_hor.html

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 6 - Candle

"The light of friendship draws ever so near..."

November 26th, 01.45am.
I am awake.
As my friends sleep and my peers lie ignorant, I am awake.
Why?
It is not the undercurrent of apathy that awakes me. Nor is it my mistress under the desk. It is the utter futility of anything I seem to do that keeps me from sleep's embrace.
It's a simple case of one step forward -
And two steps back.

Life has lost its color - gray is all which pervades my vision.
I have friends - many great people who I wish to see once more this week. But the others, they're laughing, doubling over in twisted paroxysms of mockery and derision. I can see it in their eyes.
The light of friendship draws ever so near, only to be swept away from me in an instant.
It is a candle - a dim, nearly burnt-out candle, waiting to be swept away and annexed by the darkness inside.
There are exceptions... exceptions who I deeply care about. But those exceptions know who they are. All the others have turned against me, I am certain.

You're not psychic, you know.

What?

You're not psychic. You can't possibly know what they are thinking, can you?

Perhaps. What happened to the other one?

Fell asleep - it's just you and me.

Not for long; I'm heading off too, you know.

Before you go - just listen.
What you're doing, the self-harm, it will not help.
Yes, you derive pleasure and it shuts out the pain, but it is a temporary fix, a Band-Aid which will fall. And as the wound gets worse, you'll be doing it more.
And then, one day, you'll cut too deep. Blood will rupture, and you will try and hide your work. You may succeed, but how far are you willing to go?
How far are you willing to hurt yourself in search of control?
I understand how you feel - I'm part of you, after all. Just remember, you're not alone.
Remember what your friend said; you don't have to face this alone.

...

Goodnight.

...

November 26th, 3.00am.
My faculties begin to droop.
Vision blurs.
Reality fades.
I sink into bed, ready to enter the ever-shifting, mercurial wonderland that is my dream.
Either that, or simply nothing - drifting in darkness until I wake, ready to repeat another day all over again.
People go about their lives, nattering their pretty little heads about any issue that does not require one iota of intellectual thought, and thus, I sit alone.
Slouched on a weathered wooden bench, I sit, pondering tales of past, present and future.
Dwelling in self-pity is easy to do when the fog of apathy clouds your mind.
I could ask people for advice, but it'd be the same generic bullshit as always:
"Get over yourself!"
"Stop being a pussy!"
"Man up!"
Of course, it's easier for them to condemn the problem rather than do something about it - condemnation takes no effort at all and instills people with a false sense of intellectual superiority. Lucky them, eh?
My mistress never says a word. All I have to do is move my wrist, and she obeys, tentatively turning my skin a burgundy red, leaving her scarlet trails all over my body.
It is the perfect arrangement. And the best part is: I am in control.
No-one can say otherwise.

November 26th, 19.00pm.
Still in control.
Still in control.
Still in control -
Cut. Slice into the flesh, let the blood flow.

Why?

Why not? It's what keeps you sane - that, and it keeps me in check too.

Go away. You're causing nothing but trouble.

You may be listening to the other one, but let me tell you; what makes you think he won't send you down dead ends, just like he did before when you were in love?

...

Cut. Let your art take over - let your canvas run red.

...

You know you want to. Show everyone who you really are, but not yet - wait for the moment to reveal itself.

Maybe. For now, you and the other one can go - I have business to attend to.

My canvas is red, my brush is crimson
Tinted with shame, congealing with the arisen
Thoughts and feelings which permeate my skin
Fail to silence the ever-growing din
Flesh and metal interlock, in twisted, saccharine embrace
Lost in my mind, lost inside this maze
Of pain and misery and nightmarish visions
Nothing I can do; 'cept await the oncoming collisions

My peers, they all turn and snicker
Behind my back, they quietly shout "He's a fucking nigger!"
I know they speak of me, but their voices are silent
At least until I turn; then things get violent

I lack the courage, the strength, the valor to fight these wars
Instead, all I can do is watch as the demons slam these doors
Of friendship and love straight into my face
I fall into the abyss; the end to my eldritch race.
Image of candle: http://acropolis.org.in/mumbai/articles/13-new-horizons-on-strange-tides

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 5 - Voices

"Every day is a battle, every week is a war..."

They hate you, you know.

Who? Who hates me?

Your "friends". Can't you see?
They all talk about behind your back, and chatter as you leave. I've seen them, I have.

You're lying.

Why would I waste your time with lies? When you're slicing and dicing away, I don't disturb you unless I carry the truth.

Perhaps -

Don't listen to him. He's a fraud; a charlatan and a cheat!

Oh, not you again...
Begone! Can't you see our friend has business to attend to?

He's hurting himself, day by day. Every cut, every attack on his body is only going to grow in intensity until this consumes him, and the control he sought will be swept from under him. Is that what you want?

I only serve his interests alone. Isn't that right?

...

See, he agrees!

He does not. Now, why don't you -

Do what? Go away?

Yes! You cause nothing but misery -

And you create nothing but false hope. Haven't you heard the phrase "let sleeping dogs lie"?


25th November, 21.16pm.
Every day is a constant battle against the voices in my head.
I can only keep them muzzled for so long before they're at it again. I'm just glad they don't interrupt my work.
I'm getting better - the blade cuts deeper, and no blood is produced. I am in control of my faculties.
She twists and slides on my flesh, controlled by the actions of my hand alone.

The fool. Can't he see what he's doing to himself?

He can - it's you who's making it worse.

How? How can I be making it worse?

Simple - by giving him false hope, you've set him up for a very devastating fall. You are the one who will ultimately drive him over the edge - not me.

All I want is to help him.

Don't you think that is my objective? I am simply giving him an avenue for him to let off some steam.

By cutting himself.

Yes.

25th November, 21.23pm.
The blood is pounding in my head, a frenzied drum providing the soundtrack for my mutilation.
Still, I cut, the blade finding its way further in with surprising ease.
I lift and slice, lift and slice, lift and slice, leaving gouges in my wrist - true reminders of what I am capable of.
They all think I'm crazy, I know it. Them and their diatribes, their witty retorts, their mocking laughter; all of that is beyond me now.
I am in control.

Stop this madness, stop the pain!
I can help you, help you find a way out of this rain -
No you can't, go away; you're hurting him no more
Lest you wish for his wrist to become a vision of gore

Why do you do this, feed him false hope?
Lead him astray, hand him a piece of rope
To strangle himself, end his life, hurt his peers?
I would sooner take you down, you and your vile jeers

I can't stand you -
And I can't stand you;
Every day is a battle, every week is a war
The scars are the only thing you seem to adore.  The scars are the only thing you seem to adore.

What does it matter? Just let him cut away
Who cares if his life fades to gray?
It affects you, me and everyone he knows
Let you be silenced, let him blossom his prose
I am master of my fate; in control of my life
I bid you both goodnight - let me tend to my knife.
In absence of love and faith and hope
Let the knife fill this hole - let the knife rend my soul!

Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Good-and-Evil-118973226

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 4 - Relief.

"Perhaps there is a way out..."

21st November, 19.55pm.
The cuts do not strike as deep today.
No blood is spilled, no flesh is split - at least, not very deep anyways.
The knife still twirls and dances on my skin, her cold edge dragging on my wrist, leaving behind the faintest trace of a scar. Her pirouette leaves a faint white scar trailing down the length of my lower arm - hopefully that will remain hidden from sight.
Upwards and downwards, my metal mistress travels, slowly sinking into my flesh, her jagged blade sending jolts of sweet, saccharine ecstasy up and down my arm, reverberating into my very core; at this point, all feelings stop, and all I think of is my handiwork.
Once she is finished, I put her back under the desk, away from those who would wish for me to stop.
I am going to continue - at least until I find the control I've been craving.
Images of the past flash before my eyes, and I slump back into self-pity.

21st November, 20.24pm.
I... I do not know how to feel.
I told one of my trusted friends why I had wound up in this state, the reasons for my apathy - and I was not jeered at. Rather, I was accepted for who I was, and thus, I carry new hope for the future.
Perhaps there is a way out of this pit. Whenever I try to voice a problem, I am mocked and jeered, but now, I've been... listened to.
This hasn't happened in many an age, and now I feel almost normal, like all the other students - but for now, the knife awaits. Those cuts aren't going to make themselves.
Hold on -

Maybe self-harm isn't the way out. Perhaps what you need to do is to tell your friends, and see what they -

No. 

Why not? Look at us - look at you.
The longer you keep going, the more that thing takes control of you, damn it! Just put it down -

No! Neither you, nor anyone else is taking this away. In time, maybe, but for now, I am in control, and there's nothing you can do.

Can't you see that this is a gateway to something worse? What if, dare I say it, the cuts go deeper, or this never goes away? What if, in your search for control, you lose the very thing you want to gain?

...
I'll think about it.
Good.

21st November, 21.55pm.
My mistress returns.
Fresh from her previous dance, she returns to work, her stainless edge once more gyrating on the flesh of my wrist, leaving behind the faintest of marks.
The old scars still remain - chilling reminders of the dark days. That's not to say things have gotten better; there is still a fair bit to go before I will be back to my normal self once more.
So, for now, the knife will fill that hole in my conscious. I just have to be careful not to to let it control me...
I am in control.
I am in control.
I am in control.

22nd November, 22.55pm.
Too much to bloody think about.
My best friend - yes, the one I haven't talked to in about 4 months has returned, and is willing to sort things out with me regarding our fallout.

She knows, doesn't she?
Yes - she knows our little secret. But no matter.
I am still in control of my faculties. I am in control of that knife, not vice versa.

You say you are in control now - we will have to see how this unfolds. 
And you have to uphold your promise. No cutting - not today and not tomorrow.
Are you prepared to do that?

I can't promise anything, but I will try.
For now, my mistress will remain hidden.

Good. I'd rather you not hurt yourself needlessly.

I will be meeting her soon (not going to tell you the day, am I?) and hopefully, this will be sorted once and for all.
Maybe then I will find some semblance of peace - and I won't need my mistress anymore.

No poems today; there is no need for those works
To document what slithers and lurks
Inside my mind, and inside my being
My eyes cannot believe what I am seeing

One mind, fragmented into two
One side is reason, the other serves to skew
My perception of life, tinting my vision with black
I can do nothing; nothing but kick back

This threat, this demon infiltrates my mind
Sifting through memories, see if it can find
Something, anything, to use against me
It seeks nothing but pleasure, see?

Its pleasure will come at my demise
With malign wrist and cold flesh, one would surmise
That whoever did this - to themselves and their peers
Finally broke, and succumbed to what they fought - their fears.

Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/follow-the-light-121314993

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 3 - Relief?

"My victories, failures, and mishaps were all on display..."

18th November, 21.20pm.
Haven't quite changed since the weekend.
My brush lies under my desk, beckoning to me. If I listen, I can almost hear it calling to me, a seductive melody piercing through the cacophony of dissenters and free-loaders.
I know they're laughing at me, pointing and jeering behind my back - but I find it hard to care anymore.
I have control now. And they can't take it away now.
Time to begin my painting - the blade my brush, my flesh the canvas.
Shallow cuts this time - as deep and thought-provoking as most people I associate with (i.e. not very). The brush slides seamlessly across my skin, never piercing too deep, yet making sure to at least leave some form of a mark. My new strokes are a stark contrast with the old, congealed cuts - past reminders of a shoddy, lackluster work. These ones are nearly invisible - it takes a keen eye to spot these.
For minutes(or hours) I keep at it, the strokes multiplying in number, my mood lessening further and further the more I paint. I realize now that this - as self-destructive as it may be, is truly the catharsis I have missed out on; now that I have a medium by which to vent, I no longer "snap" and lash out at inquisitive minds.
Not a perfect method, but a method nonetheless. I retire to my abode, a solid night's work complete - at least until the next day.

18th November, 23.30pm.
I have to learn to control myself - my wrist screams in pain, the skin now a mild raspberry red.
Still, I am happy with my handiwork - the hard part is keeping it hidden. I will succeed; after all, who goes around looking at wrists?

20th November, 6.30pm.
I feel better today - my brush is safely tucked away, hidden from prying eyes and neer-doers.
The time has come to watch a school production - one of my classmates insisted I come along, and who was I to refuse such a person?
Thankfully, I brought a friend with me - one of the few who don't talk behind my back, yet she shares the same nihilistic outlook on life; it is odd to find an equal here in this town.
For the hour I sat down to watch this show, I took the time to look back on my life here in secondary school.
My victories, failures, and mishaps were all on display, and even now, I still regret many of things I've done. The friends I've lost(one in particular) still beckon to me in my mind, and I try ever so hard to dispel such nostalgia, but I cannot - I fear it is much a part of me as I am of it.
I wonder; what if things had gone differently?
What if I was more sensible in the past, and voiced my opinions instead of staying shut?
I dispel such thoughts, and look to the future for help. Where once a bright light stood, now stands an abyss - as dark and as beckoning as those whose skirts are shorter than their intellect.
My friend sits to my left, and she still looks as beautiful as ever - with the face of an angel, I still find it hard to believe that she hates everyone and everything - but alas, such is the way of the nihilst.
We watch the show in shared silence, but I am in a world of own, glimpsing what could have happened, what should have happened, and perhaps what will happen - all these possibilities flash before me, only to disappear as quickly, lost to the annals of the mind.
I'm glad I wore a long-sleeved shirt; my canvas is incomplete, and I'd rather no-one knew of my twisted past-time right now. Not until I find some trust - the trust I did have has been eroded to the point where paranoia dominates my instincts. I bottle my issues up, and self-harm is my release, my stress-breaker.
My heart lightens and the fog clears, if only for a moment. I know it is painful, but at least I know I can feel something.
I'm not stopping; not for my friends, not for my peers, and not for anyone.
I have control, and they won't take it. They won't.

My heart lightens, the fog now clears
I paint in silence, and then the pain sears
Into my being, gnawing at my core
The heart palpitates, my wrist lies sore

The brush hums, and my flesh screams
Thoughts of misery, usually reserved for my dreams
Penetrate my mind, my soul and my very being
Even now, I cannot believe what I am seeing

A dark winding road, a figure clad in white
Two paths before me, a chance to do what is right
Walk down the unknown, or chase pleasures of old?
The latter choice may as well have been fool's gold

The past beckons, cries, pleads for me to go
I rush down the path of old, but only the heart does know
Of the lies, the tears and broken promises this journey contained
I have no control of the past - what is there to be gained?

Source of "stress" image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Stress-213867670

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 2 - Malign

"I don't understand it."

November 16th, 23.35pm.
They laugh at me.
All this time we've been friends - all of the experiences, the laughs, the banter - all of that, I start to doubt.
I should have seen it coming; they don't listen to cogent, thought-out arguments, nor the voice of reason.
All that matters to them is "winning" the argument, and they don't do it with argument - they do it by shutting down debate and dismissing me as an annoyance, by pretending they don't even care about the argument they instigated.
Their troll logic confuses me at every turn, yet also tinges my mind with sadness.
I don't understand it. I don't understand how people can dismiss others without so much as a cursory glance, then go on to talk about things which won't even matter in their lives.
I cry, knowing that I've become the very person I used to dismiss myself - the outcast.
When I turn my back, they jeer and mock and ridicule; their two-faced nature becomes more and more apparent to me with each passing of the day. I know they're mocking me, so why don't they tell me?
I know they don't care or pity me; I've outlived my usefulness, nothing more. Such is the way of someone like I - a commodity to be thrown away when no longer entertaining.
I skulk and shift in my home, the very place I'm meant to feel safe - and I realize I've completely lost control.
My emotions, my life, my friends... all of these are dictated by other, more malign forces on my life.
I feel helpless, but only one thing remains clear - there is no gilded savior to save me this time.
No cavalry, no blinding light, no miraculous epiphany - I am alone.
Thoughts of agonizingly ecstasy rush into my head, and I head for the kitchen. At least there something I can control - my suffering.

November 16th, 23.43pm.
With trembling hands and a malign purpose, I clutch my instrument tenderly in my hand.
It holds a sinister beauty to it - the grooves designed to help the blade lacerate and tear into flesh, the cold, unnatural metal sending shivers up and down my arm. Hesitantly, I put the blade next to my skin, the culmination of 4 months of misfortune, derision, and plain old self-pity comes to life as the blade strokes at my skin in short, staccato bursts. The blade licks and writhes atop, causing inflammation but never plunging further - the objective after all is pain, not laceration.
Then, flesh and metal lock together in lover's embrace, bringing me untold agony and ecstasy, all merged together into one. My mind screams at me, telling me to stop, telling me to stop harming.
I know better. As the night reaches its zenith, I score more marks with my knife; the flesh of my wrist is my canvas, the knife the paintbrush. I look back at my twisted work, satisfied with the result.
I have hurt myself today - leaving marks that are not too visible - yet they are not nonexistent; they live on as reminders of how shallow and petty the people I consort with are.
My mind numb, and my body weary, I set off to bed - the only place that'll keep me safe.
I clutch my wrist, and I sense that this is the beginning of something new; something only I have control of.
Today, I have walked the first steps I have walked in a long time.
No longer will I be at the mercy of others. Now that control is mine, all I can do is see where my journey takes me, and whether my instrument will gift me with new understanding.

November 17th, 00.02am.
I have control. I finally have control.

November 17th, 18.02pm.
My appointment awaits; Lady Knife will not hold out on me much longer.
For the first time in what feels like an era, I have a semblance of control in my life. I may have been deserted, my work may be unfinished, but curses, I have control.
And no-one can take that away from me. No-one.

With warped body and twisted mind
I hold the knife, to see if I can find
The rhyme, the reason, the purpose behind this pain
What is there to win, what is there to gain?

Control, my friend, that is the prize
With every second, the pain will rise
In a crescendo of anguish, one will know
That redemption will fall faster than the stone

My handiwork complete, my masterpiece unveiled
All my peers will now know I have failed
To remain as myself: happy, bright and alive
The opposite takes my place; only Darkness will thrive

With bloodied brush and sundered mind
I mark my wrist, to see if I can find
The rhyme, the reason, the purpose behind this madness
Leave me alone; let me slumber in my sadness.

Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Self-Harm-in-the-Shadows-146981101

Scarlet Flesh: Chapter 1 - Ice

"Their words cut through me like ice..."

(Note: this post will be part of a half-fiction, half-truth journal that will continue for an unspecified amount of time.
If you don't like this, I suggest you find another blog to read.
And if you're wondering what is truth and what is fantasy during this journey; that's up to you to decide.)


15th November, 10.32am.
I can hear them.
Not always, but every now and again, I can hear people laughing at me, their voices ringing as sharp as a bell in my head. I try and convince myself that it isn't true, that my friends aren't so malicious, but my mind says otherwise.
"They're laughing at you." "They think you're a moron." "Can't you hear them, bitching about YOU?"
All these, and many more, play non-stop, each day, each hour, and it's hard not to listen.
I try to block them out, to no avail - the torture continues.
How have I fallen so far? An optimist who saw the good in all - turned into a nihilist with a penchant for despair?
The question will have to wait until later - my work lies unfinished, unused on the table. I star at it for what seems like an eternity, the sounds around me all coalescing into one amorphous voice - a voice without impact or power behind it, just a collection of individuals vying for dominance.
My next door neighbor, she does not like me. I am not surprised. Whenever I open my mouth, I often say something stupid, and wind up being scolded as a result. There's no point arguing my case - everyone remains laconic in response, ignorant of how they've gone and exacerbated the situation. Thus, I sit down, surrounded by people, yet feeling more alone than before - sometimes it's simply best to remain quiet.

15th November, 11.10am.
I sit alone, clutching a warm savory meal for sustenance - it is the only company I have.
A few friends walk by, but nothing changes. I'm still on my own, as I always have in these times of crisis. It is when I am at my weakest that I hide alone. With others, all they do is mock and deride my problems, going so far as to dismiss them entirely. Their words cut through me like ice, inadvertently contributing to the growing sadness inside me. I wish I could turn back the clock - get things back to the good old days once more. It's too late to indulge in such puerile fantasies for me. No happy ending this time.
There was a time, believe it or not, when I was not like this. I was, to an extent, ordinary. I had great friends, a great role in the community, and a best friends who I adored with all my heart. Now, I still have everything - minus that best friend. For reasons best left for another day, our friendship ended, and now I lie with a ragged hole where my heart once beat. That's what I'm missing - that one friend I can confide in and trust completely. But I know they'd all laugh. They always do.
My secrets are laid bare, and people of all stripes seek to judge and mock me for what I've done.
As if they're any more holy than I; many of them have skeletons in their own closets, but I choose to keep my lips sealed. No-one likes an honest man in this town, no matter how valid their points are.

15th November, 12.20pm.
People go about their daily business, hanging out with their friends, having fun - all whilst I walk alone, keeping my emotions hidden under a calm facade, hiding the words I want to say.
In an ideal world, I would say what I want to say to my friends, but how can I?
When all their voices do is shout me down?
I learnt the hard way that should I trust anyone with anything important to me, they will laugh and throw it back in my face - and I'm left to pick up the pieces.
Whilst all this is happening, she lurks in my mind; the best friend who has plagued me for so long, without even saying a word.
Why do you stay?
Why can't I erase you from my memory?
I move on, eager to escape the nightmares lurking within, and the false hopes that once led me astray. I was foolish to think that I could keep her in my life - I should have seen this coming, and taken action.
Whilst lulling in sweet, saccharine bliss, she edged further away, repulsed by my actions. And when she split, it was too late - the damage had been done, and I had lost the woman who had guided me for almost two years. I shut the door and moved on months ago - but the nostalgia I felt then was certainly more comforting than the dark apathy that resides within me. I see no point in anything - everything I used to do, all the friends I talked to... it's as if all the color has drained from my life, and my vision sees nothing but grey.
Love? Hate?
Neither find no home here - the indifference which smothers my heart blankets out anything else, protecting me from the inevitable hurt I will face should I learn to love again.

15th November, 3.05pm.
Time to head home.
The only place where I know I'll be safe from their harsh laughter, their mocking voices.
I know they're all whispering behind my back - they've done it to others, and I'm their next target.
That's why I yearn for home - my friends may not be here, but now I can be alone; away from those who would wish to deride me and those with nothing better to do than torment others.
The cold breeze cuts through me like ice, resonating with the growing numbness in my mind and heart.
Nevertheless, I trudge on, eager to hide back in my shell.
It's the only place where I'll ever be safe. They can yell and curse and bitch, but my shell will keep me safe.
It's the only place where nothing can hurt me, and where I can remain unscathed.
I often wonder how I've wound up in this situation, and all I can do is beg and plead for the past to return.
Such foolish dreams will somehow become real if I wish hard enough - even though my mind knows that there will be no fanfare, no cavalry to save the day.
Only the remnants of my wilting hopes and shattered dreams hold any semblance of comfort from the raging storm inside.

My mind begins to close, my heart begins to weaken
The girl I once knew, that one shining beacon
Of light, of love and all the things I adore
Fades away, and I am left at death's door.

Holding wilted hopes, I surge further on
Passing the souls of the lost, I don
A cloak, to hide myself from the pain
I have lost the one I loved, with nothing left to gain.

Onward I trek, her screams haunting this place
My heart dims further, and now it becomes a race
To reach the finish line, before it's too late.
My legs drive me on, towards the golden gate.

Now, I fall, fall into the dark
Memories flashing by, my thoughts turn to the Park
Where all was fine, and all was right
Alone, I shatter under Darkness' might.

Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Comfortably-Cold-98440687