They make such a big deal out of not making a big deal of it. They hide it in clear view, forcing people to take notice of what they do to themselves while deluding each other that no one knows what they do in the darkness of their rooms. Some think it's cool; some do it for a release, for relief. Personally, I always did it for the thrill, the rush as I watched my own blood spill onto the tiles.

I didn't do it for pity. I didn't do it because I wanted people to pay attention to me. I did because I liked the feeling. I did it because it made me feel in control, it was a power trip. I loved it. The scars made me prettier. I liked to smear the new blood over the old wounds, enhancing the ridges with a crimson splash.

I never hid my scars, my wounds and that made people nervous. It made other cutters nervous. I was playing against the rules. They looked at me as if I was stupid, tried to tell me to wear long sleeved shirts, hide the scars. Don't want other people to know what you've done. No, of course not, you want to show them at the wrong time and make their heart wrench in sympathy for the poor pathetic soul you are.

If my scars are seen, it doesn't bother me. So what? I like to cut myself. It's a cheap thrill and I adore my scars. My own personal art, they are unique and they mean something to me. They mean I can control myself and I know that oneday I'll go too far, lose my head to adrenalin and cut a vein. Then I'll really bleed.

But that's what it's all about. It's about the risk. The knowledge that oneday I could take my life just to push myself that bit further. And it does make me feel better, it makes me feel good about myself, and each time I cut myself I go that bit deeper, that bit closer to the edge. I take myself over the pain barrier into euphoria caused by blood loss. It really is something to experience.

And yes, I know that oneday I'll be found dead, lying in a pool of my own blood, a knife grasped loosely in one hand. I'll be labelled misguided, disturbed - another one of those cutters. Lacking self-control, lacking self-confidence, poor person to be pitied for they were forced into this through some facet of their lives. That's not me. They won't understand that my scarred and abused body was a product of my own perverse delight; they'll put it down to the stereotype.

Forever to be known as that girl who cut herself, something was wrong with her. No one knew. But she cut herself, hacked her arms with razors and one day she dug too deep and blood flowed out of her like a raging river, and she died in her bathroom, a pale etched corpse stained red awaiting her parents to find her.

That will be I, but when it happens, remember, I wasn't a stereotype. Just a girl who liked to push the boundaries, explore the limits of pleasure and pain and take control of the human condition, creating a web of scars across both her body and soul to carry her into the afterlife. Believe that I will die happy, and it will be my death by my choice. Control to the end.

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