Some people will never know what it is like to self harm. And that is for the best. Self harm is an addiction, the kind that I can perfectly remember the moment when it all went wrong.

A bent paperclip, twisted into a wire the length of my hand. Long enough to do damage, short enough to hide.

That's probably what went wrong.

Not the paperclip itself, but the hiding. I learned about all kinds of places I could hide things. I learned that while they dug apart my room, they never checked the school locker. They never spotted the difference between my cuts with a razor blade and my cuts with a paperclip, even though I said they were the same things.

But it wasn't the issue with them. It was the issue with me.

The thing about me is I didn't even notice I was depressed. I thought it was normal. All my friends were the same way. I didn't even consider people's insensitive bullshit as bullying until someone told me it was. I thought everyone got called ugly by their friends. I thought everyone was told they were too weak or scared to kill themself. I thought that was normal.

I guess I was wrong.

My sister was my first: first female sibling, first best friend, first keeper of my secrets; then everything turned terribly wrong.

She became the first person I had to lie for, the first I had to bring home from a drunken party, the first to lose her virginity and the first to go down a terrrible path.

She was the first person I had to wrestle the knife from, the first I had to see get a stomach pumped and the first to worsen despite all the effort.

She became my first suicide rescue, my first heartbreak as she suffered, my first failure as a sister and the first at letting her down.

She used to be first in my heart, the first in my life; but after so many years, I was sick of the strife. No longer first, second or third; for the choices made, she’d always erred.

I have become first: first to graduate high school, first to go to college, first to have a job and everything is going well.

#challenge, #xjenvanx, #rawandreal, #sister, #first, #life

Alex watched in horror as Juno, her eyes red with blood rage, sunk her fangs into the Skinwalker’s neck and felt a surge of relief to feel the fresh blood running through her system and pushed her fangs in a little deeper.

“Juno!” Alex yelled over the woman’s cries of pains.

The Skinwalker struggled to release herself, but Juno used her free hand to grab her elbow and bend it back. A loud crack rang in the air as the bone snapped and her arm went limp, dropping the gun.

“Juno! Stop!”

Juno looked at Alex and her eyes widened when they met Alex’s. She slowly lifted her mouth, with blood dripping from it, her fangs still protruded.

The Skinwalker used her good arm to reach for the gun, and Alex started to rush forward but froze as a hand burst through her chest, clutching her heart.

Blood spilled out of her mouth as Juno yanked her hand back, still clutching the heart, and she fell dead to the ground.

“What the hell did you do?” Alex asked in a stunned voice, staring at her.

Juno stared at the heart in her hands and felt a huge wave of strength come over her. She sucked in a breath as she noticed that her fingernails had extended slightly to sharp, pointed tips that were not there a moment earlier.

Alex felt his heart stop as the gold tint in her eyes disappeared quickly.

Juno opened her mouth to say something, but closed it when Jethro, Luca and Delissio rounded the corner.

All three men stopped, looking between the body, a bloody faced Juno, and the heart in her hands.

“Juno,” Alex said sharply. “Drop it.”

Juno felt her fingernails return their normal size and dropped the heart before she raised one hand to her chin.

“It was self-defense,” Jethro said, looking between them as he, Luca and Delissio approached them.

Alex nodded, feeling numb as he stared at Juno.

“Maybe just a tad bit excessive though,” Delissio muttered, looking between Juno and the body before he turned and walked away, shaking his head.

It was our first official introduction, the Devil and I. The date was April 5, 1985, Good Friday. There was a party. I did not know the house, but as things go with young people I seemed to know everyone in it, or at least everyone seemed familiar to me. They were like me in age and temperament, so that I was comfortable among them. All but one, least-wise, and that one was quite different.

Actually, I should say there were two in attendance who were different, as even though the others felt familiar to me I was undoubtedly strange to them, even though they tried very hard to fit me into their shenanigans. As was my custom at these events, I poured my beer, found a chair away from the laughing, raucous throngs and opened my book. Periodically, I would look up at a chapter’s end to survey the goings-on, but in truth it was usually pretty tame fun for everyone, myself included. As always, there were the usual drinking games and the exaggerated “lover’s tiffs” brought on by excessive drinking, but all in all, this party, like most of them, was a rather quiet night to this point, the point when the entertainment arrived.

Now before I go on about that entertainment, I would like to address my “strange” behavior. I am a bit of a loner. I have few friends, they are more like acquaintances really, people whom I know by name, but not through familiarity. The friends I do have are always the wildest ones, the ones who throw the keg parties and the ones who light the bonfires, or who know where to find them. I am drawn to those types, as they are the ones who know where the fun in life lies. The thing that is peculiar about me though is that I do not show for the fun, and I don’t attend for the booze, although I will partake. I am not even after the girls, although if one offers herself (which they often do), I am not above borrowing her for the evening, but I don’t care to keep her.

No, the reason I am invited to these parties, and the reason I attend, is that I am the enforcer. When trouble starts, I stop it. These weekend nights that everyone loves so much, the nights that allow them to unwind and let loose also afford me the opportunity to do what I love. We all must have a passion. I am no exception to that rule. My fun just comes in a different manner than most others. What those parties give to me is the occaisional chance to kick some ass. The would-be toughs who I have crossed paths with previously know me now. They see me there in my corner with my book, so they tread lightly by. They rein themselves back so that I will stay in that corner. They want me to stay in that corner. Strangers, the ones whom I have not yet met, the big ones who believe that causing trouble is fun quickly learn that it is not, not when I am present. They learn that it does not pay to start trouble when I am in my corner. Let the man read his book, and drink his beer, and have the occasional girlfriend sit in his lap.

I am a fighter. I like it. I live for it. Fists, blades, guns, pick your poison. I find nothing so thrilling as to see that fury in your eyes turn to fear. I love to be hit. I love the smoky taste of blood... mine or yours. I love the numbness after a blow. I love the fog that seeps into my head after, but mostly I love pushing all of that to the side and stomping, stomping, stomping! There it is, in a nutshell. We all have our purpose in this world. You now know mine.

The entertainment on this night turned out to be mushrooms. Hallucinagenic ones. The baggy-full was passed around. I chewed mine with a beer and retreated to my corner chair to read and watch the fun.

And it was fun! There was never more laughter, never more dancing, never more drinking, as the ’shrooms created a cartoon world of carefree fun for everyone who partook. Everything was great right up until he arrived, the other one who was different, that is.

How was he different, you might be wondering? Well, he was different in every way. He was very tall and very thin, with hollow cheeks and eyes. Despite the urban setting he was dressed like a farmer, or more like a poor man just down from the mountain. He wore a colorless gray coat, with colorless brown pants, and a wide-brimmed, black planter’s hat that shadowed his face, hiding him in plain sight.

It is funny, I stood face-to-face with him, but I cannot recall his features, only that they were angular, and shifting. They seemed to change with your viewpoint, chameleon-like with the background. I chalked that peculiarity up to the ’shrooms. He seemed harmless enough, passing through the crowds of laughing kids, obviously unknown to any of them. He was tall enough that I could see him from my seat, from my corner. My eyes followed him through the room. He moved quickly without seeming to hurry, his eyes never making contact with any particular person, as though he was a wolf trotting around the herd, slinking on the edges, patient. The problem was, this was my herd... my flock.

I bent my page down and stood. Knowing what was to happen next, the murmur in the room died. From across the room I watched his head turn toward me. The crowd between us parted, the tension between us obvious. Our eyes locked. His seemed familiar, their lustre bright.

I started towards him, my boot-heels loud in the sudden silence. “What business have you here?” My question rang across the room, my voice echoing off of wood, plaster and glass. “You were not invited here, and you are not wanted here.” The corners of my eyes saw kids ducking from the room, smart kids.

Thin lips drew into what might have been a smile. I was close enough now to see the stains on his teeth, to feel the warmth of his breath, and to smell the age in his clothes and the clay on his boots. He reached up a large hand, an unusually large hand with an unusually wide wrist and used it to tip his hat to me. Up close he was not so thin, but was sinewy, and solid. He was speaking, but I heard nothing over the angry blood rushing through my ears. I put an index finger on his chest and pushed him backward with it. His eyes widened with surprise at the strength in me. “You will leave now. You do not belong here.” My words were not shouted, but were of a firm tone, a matter of fact tone.

”Who are you to tell me where I belong, and where I can be?”

“I am the one who will make you go.”

”No man can make me go.”

”I can... and I will.” My finger touched on his chest again, and again he was pushed back. The surprise on his face was obvious.

”I will go,” he whispered. “But we will meet again.”

It was my turn to smile. “No doubt.”

I returned to my corner, and to my book. The line at the tap grew. The music resumed. Nervous talk was followed by nervous laughter as wasted kids fought to process what they had witnessed, chalking it up to the ’shrooms as the easiest and most logical of answers. Surely it could not have been the ageless battle of “Good vs. Evil” that they had just witnessed, although it was Good Friday and it had been a frightening confrontation. There was a lot of discussion, away from my corner, as to who might have won if it had come to blows. Most who had seen me fight were adamantly on my side, but there was something indomitable about the stranger, and there were many debates, just as there would be many individual, internal debates among these youngsters for years to come concering just what it was they had witnessed on this Good Friday, 1985?

Me? The angry blood rushing through my ears receded as some kind soul offered me a beer. I opened my book and faded into my dark corner. The party started up again in earnest. I was young, but I was smart enough to know that, if it had, in fact, been a contest of Good vs. Evil, then there had been no sure winner, and I was left to wonder... in this most recent battle, which side had won? Which side laid claim to this flock? Which side was I fighting for, and which side against?

I'm not sure why I can't just let go. I didn't like him. And I didn't love him in that way. But I can't figure out why, after so much time has passed since we last spoke to each other, I can't seem to be indifferent.

That's the opposite of love right? Indifference. Not hate. Just, nothing. Yet I know for a fact that this is not nothing. I think he's happy now. What we had was just friendship. I was there for him, he was there for me. We were there for each other. Until we weren't.

I never told anyone about this, because that might make me look bad. He's got his whole life figured out now, while I'm here just stuck in between places. He was always the one with the big plans. While I went with the flow. But what happens to me when the ebbing finally stops?

Maybe this was jealousy, at the idea that he's way past me on the contest of life. But maybe it's also just selfishness, because once upon a time I believed that he would always remain by my side. And somehow, part of me is sad that he doesn't need me anymore. Or maybe I'm just sad.

I remember my first Argentinian steak. It was a steak house in Spain. The piece was so big it came on a wooden platter of its own. Potatoes in a bowl, no vegetables. It was like the side of a cow uncut. I couldn’t believe it was real.

I usually had my steak ‘well done’, but I figured as this was a ‘real’ steak (not some cheap cut of meat in a pub eatery) I should eat it the way I’m told steak should be eaten. ‘Rare’. Or, as it seemed to me, ‘raw’.

It virtually mooed as I cut into it, it was so raw. The red juice that everyone tells me isn’t blood*, just oozed out like blood as I cut into it.

The sight almost made me sick.

What could I do? It had cost a fortune, so I tucked in. I did focus mainly on the potatoes, eating about half the steak, which was tasty, but not to my taste.

It was too big, too raw and too real.

It was the firstand last time I ate a steak ‘real, raw and uncut’!

:)

*That red liquid isn’t blood. ... The red hue comes from a protein called myoglobin, which helps muscle tissue store oxygen, like hemoglobin does in your blood. And like hemoglobin, the iron in myoglobin turns red when it binds with oxygen, giving raw meat that red hue, according to the New York Times (and everybody else.)

“Rule #1 of life. Do what makes YOU happy.” “The biggest failure you can have in life is making the mistake of never trying at all.” “Don't put your life on hold so you can dwell of the unfairness of past hurts.” Blah, blah, blah. That's not to say these quotes are completely vapid, just that they're ineffective when you're not in the business of understanding yourself. “But! Self-love!!!” Shut up. Stupid.

Self-love. What the fuck does that even mean? That by actually sleeping and deciding to eat and taking a shower means I give a shit? Well how about doing that two or three times, and then remembering that all I do is eat, shit, and sleep, and launching myself out the window in the morning. I can't get over it. Humans are so fucking weird. And I mean that sincerely. My mom thought that was all I needed as a kid, so she was shocked and maybe horrified when I told her that I wished the only person I had a full conversation with (my aunt) was my mother.

Last night was the one year anniversary of me cooking dinner for the house by myself. Not that I have any idea what I'm doing — because despite what you might think, watching Youtube videos about how to prepare dinner doesn't give you any confidence when you're “not a picky eater,” but your audience is. On top of that, they're not vocal about their opinions. Until after I've served it to them.

Am I picky??? Do I even know what that means? I guess that would require having an opinion, but “nobody asked” me.

Maybe I'm being a little restentful. Hell, maybe I'm angry. These are problems that didn't even occur to me because I've been too busy dealing with issues of authority. Thanks dad, for making me friends with my trauma, when I'd rather be an ass-backwards hood rat screaming “fuck the free world,” than live well fed in your jail cell. I was waiting for you to tell me “don't come home,” one last time, but I recently read you shouldn't put your life on hold for anyone.

The rooster that eternally crows in a pathetic attempt to somehow awake me from this drunken state of intellect. Sometimes I associate reality with depression. An effort to convince myself that these notes I scribble are my paradise, among others, that I will never get tired of confiding in. Reality and job practically mean the same thing. Until you make your paradise become your reality. To me, this ruins the whole idea of paradise though. I easily become annoyed or get tired of things too quickly. Ever changing! I cannot stay intrigued by the same thing for a long period of time. It’ll ruin how I view it in the side mirrors, meaning I will be less motivated to turnaround the life mobile and revisit it in a later reference. Example: I began talking to this girl who lived four hours and thirty seven minutes away. Her and I talked for four days straight, non stop (and I mean non stop), sort of hooked on the acknowledgement of the others embrace. It was weird. I’ve never felt so complete, as a person, then when I was talking to her. The sixth day, we decide that we should FaceTime each other. Seemingly too good to be true, we had to find out if the other person did actually exist. An immensely regretted decision now that I know what I do about myself. The FaceTime video destroyed this whimsical character my mind had begun to assemble based off of the blueprints acquired through analysis of her picture and her as a compilation of words. As a sentence she was this well thought, calm tempered, concise girl. A picture, she was a portrait of beauty; gaining confidence that she noticeably lacked through speech. Reality (which the FaceTime revealed) she was just as terrible a person as the next, an occurrence with which I am too familiar. My paradise was instantly played out. Despairing were the next few days of conversation between us. Ended by here proclamation of my “weirdness” based off her misunderstanding of my beautiful mind. But this is why I don’t think I could ever be 100% percent committed towards writing. One hundred percent committed to writing is he who needs to write for money, One hundred percent invested is he who longs to write. I need writing too much to oversaturate myself with your prompts, business offers or money. I write because it’s something that saved my life, something that helps me understand my actions, something that plans my future, something that just really saves me from myself and the extreme depth of my psyche, something I need ubiquitously in terms of aspect. My needs will never extend past that of purpose, desire, or fate. Motivated by problems fate places in front of me for literary dissection. So, I guess no matter how pathetic the crow of reality, it is quintessential to the creative energy lying deeply embedded throughout my literature.

Door closed.

Curtains drawn.

Lights dimmed.

Blade sharpened.

What am I doing?

I want this.

Yes.

I do want this.

I'm not depressed.

No.

That's not it.

Why am I doing this?

I'm fine.

Drawing lines, forming words.

I do that all the time.

But this is different.

We both did it.

It's okay right?

No.

It's not.

I know it's not.

Carve deep in my flesh.

It hurts.

I still want this.

I'll have to hide, as usual.

Keep going.

Don't you dare cry.

It's been months I know.

Why did I do it?

It wasn't even a real blade.

But the scars I bear still remain.

I'm afraid of who you made me become.

I'm afraid no one will understand why I did it.

I'm afraid it will be why I can never forget you.

I watch as the ambulance goes by the bystanders go stand somewhere else and chatter about what just happened. How they dragged her body out the crimson slime she corroded in for three consecutive weeks. They didn't even know she loved butterflies and rainbows. They didn't know what she felt like when she was alone. They didn't know how she made me feel, how she felt when my blade exposed her secrets secreting all over my shoes. How I placed her there for the world to see just what they made me do to her. They won't find me they will never know it was me they will never know she is me.