Doomed
This is a fictitious, introspective, first-person piece. Warning for implied/mentioned abuse as well as described self-harm and manipulation of a child.
Do you think I was doomed to be like this? I never knew my parents. Instead of a family, I was moved from home to home, orphanage to orphanage, planet to planet. I don't want to describe everything that happened, but I will tell you the shortest things, things I can barely remember. I stayed in one home for five years. I liked it. Then they hurt me, I lashed out, and they moved me. In the next house, I met an older boy who stared at me coldly but never hurt me. The parents there had a son who used to sneak into the bedrooms of the girls. The boy did something before he could come into mine. After that, I moved twice a year. I learned how to recognize patterns in behavior, how to pretend to be nothing, how to hide in closets and cupboards and pretend to not exist. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. It got exhausting. I always had to be perfect, but not too perfect. I was quiet, but not silent. Some kids, they didn't learn. They were angry, resentful, and cruel. Some of them, always the ones who hadn't been in longer than two years, were hopeful. They cried when they were hit. They glared when they were scoffed at. They looked at each new house like it could be their home. I was too tired to pretend I had any hope. It had been slapped out of me when I left that first home. Sometimes I am afraid I was always going to end up this way. Even if I never met Savannah. I was nine. It was my eleventh home. There were several of us, maybe ten or so. Savannah was one of the older girls, sixteen years old. She was nice. She didn't yell. She didn't tattle. Sometimes she gave pieces of her dinner to us younger kids. I remember opening the door to the bathroom without knocking, looking for something. Savannah was sitting on the toilet, leaning over her knees, and there were cuts on her arms. I asked her what was wrong, said, "You're bleeding!" and she looked up. I will never forget how empty her eyes looked. She smiled, but it held no warmth. "Shut the door, sweetie," she said. "And come over here." When I think of it now, I can barely believe it. I can't imagine what she was thinking, why she would tell me to come closer, and even when I put myself in her place with all that I've experienced since then, I can never imagine doing what she did. Savannah told me that sometimes she felt nothing, that sometimes pain was the only real thing, that it felt better to be in pain than be empty. When it hurt on the inside, she'd hurt herself on the outside. She needed to control her pain, control what was happening, and it felt good to free herself of the pain only her soul could feel. What person does that? What person tells someone younger than them what they're doing to themselves? How could she do that? She may have been hurting, but why hurt someone else? But I didn't think that at the time. Instead, as I looked at Savannah and her empty eyes and her kind smile and the razor in her hand and the red lines on her wrist, I thought, Sometimes I feel like that too. Sometimes I feel empty and unmoored and like there's something painful inside, but I can't explain it. And Savannah cleaned herself up while I sat on the bathroom floor and thought, and then she opened her little bag of toiletries to put away her razor and pulled out a pocketknife, and she handed me the knife and told me that I should always keep something with me to protect myself, and that if I ever felt the same way as she did, I could use it in the same way. Maybe it was all Savannah's fault. Maybe it was mine. Savannah left that house a few weeks later. Months after that, when I had moved houses again, I sat on my bed, staring at the wall, and remembered what she said. I slid the pocketknife out of my bag and cradled it in my hands, running my fingers over the ridges and lines, admiring how small it was. Then I went to the bathroom, pressed the blade to my arm, and cut. The first few times, it was uncomfortable. But after a few cuts, the pain almost seemed to vanish, and all that was left was a sense of floating. There was a disconnect between me and my body, much like I had sometimes when getting punished, but for some reason, it felt okay. I was in control this time. I could stop when I wanted to. I could keep going if I wanted to. Cleaning up was the hard part. I already knew how to bandage myself, how to hide bruises and welts under clothing, but this time there was more blood, blood I had to hide not just from workers but from the other people in the house. I started wearing long sleeves all year to hide both the injuries and the scars. It only got worse. After a year of cutting, I was addicted. The slide of the blade on my arm, the way my skin split, the red that welled up, the pain that faded when I didn't move, and the knowledge that I was the one doing it, all of it turned any sense of fear and disgust into pleasure, into need. I didn't do it at every house, just the ones that were bad. After I turned ten, there weren't any good ones anymore. The last good one had been when I was eight. I liked it. The couple were kind, they were careful, they cared about us. But the system on that planet made a new rule, one they didn't want to follow, and they lost their ability to keep us. I wanted to stay there. But the workers didn't let me. Instead, I went to the next house and met Savannah. I wasn't punishing myself, not always. Mostly, it was to feel something, anything, even if it hurt. But sometimes I did it so I had control over what happened. I don't think I can stop now. I don't think I can get out. I was doomed from the moment I placed the blade to my skin at nine years old. Maybe I was doomed from the moment I opened the door to the bathroom, the moment Savannah told me why she cut, the moment she handed me the pocketknife. Maybe I was doomed the moment I was placed in the same house as her. Or maybe I was doomed the moment I left the nice couple's house. Maybe I was doomed the moment Andy set the kitchen on fire when I was six. Maybe I was doomed the moment I cried to the worker in my second house. Maybe I was doomed the moment that man raised his hand against me. Maybe I was doomed when I arrived there as a baby, already leaving my first placement. Maybe it was the moment I entered the system, parents dead in an accident, records sealed to prevent me from reading them, alone and without family. Maybe I was doomed the moment I was born.
Do you think I was doomed to be like this? I never knew my parents. Instead of a family, I was moved from home to home, orphanage to orphanage, planet to planet. I don't want to describe everything that happened, but I will tell you the shortest things, things I can barely remember. I stayed in one home for five years. I liked it. Then they hurt me, I lashed out, and they moved me. In the next house, I met an older boy who stared at me coldly but never hurt me. The parents there had a son who used to sneak into the bedrooms of the girls. The boy did something before he could come into mine. After that, I moved twice a year. I learned how to recognize patterns in behavior, how to pretend to be nothing, how to hide in closets and cupboards and pretend to not exist. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. It got exhausting. I always had to be perfect, but not too perfect. I was quiet, but not silent. Some kids, they didn't learn. They were angry, resentful, and cruel. Some of them, always the ones who hadn't been in longer than two years, were hopeful. They cried when they were hit. They glared when they were scoffed at. They looked at each new house like it could be their home. I was too tired to pretend I had any hope. It had been slapped out of me when I left that first home. Sometimes I am afraid I was always going to end up this way. Even if I never met Savannah. I was nine. It was my eleventh home. There were several of us, maybe ten or so. Savannah was one of the older girls, sixteen years old. She was nice. She didn't yell. She didn't tattle. Sometimes she gave pieces of her dinner to us younger kids. I remember opening the door to the bathroom without knocking, looking for something. Savannah was sitting on the toilet, leaning over her knees, and there were cuts on her arms. I asked her what was wrong, said, "You're bleeding!" and she looked up. I will never forget how empty her eyes looked. She smiled, but it held no warmth. "Shut the door, sweetie," she said. "And come over here." When I think of it now, I can barely believe it. I can't imagine what she was thinking, why she would tell me to come closer, and even when I put myself in her place with all that I've experienced since then, I can never imagine doing what she did. Savannah told me that sometimes she felt nothing, that sometimes pain was the only real thing, that it felt better to be in pain than be empty. When it hurt on the inside, she'd hurt herself on the outside. She needed to control her pain, control what was happening, and it felt good to free herself of the pain only her soul could feel. What person does that? What person tells someone younger than them what they're doing to themselves? How could she do that? She may have been hurting, but why hurt someone else? But I didn't think that at the time. Instead, as I looked at Savannah and her empty eyes and her kind smile and the razor in her hand and the red lines on her wrist, I thought, Sometimes I feel like that too. Sometimes I feel empty and unmoored and like there's something painful inside, but I can't explain it. And Savannah cleaned herself up while I sat on the bathroom floor and thought, and then she opened her little bag of toiletries to put away her razor and pulled out a pocketknife, and she handed me the knife and told me that I should always keep something with me to protect myself, and that if I ever felt the same way as she did, I could use it in the same way. Maybe it was all Savannah's fault. Maybe it was mine. Savannah left that house a few weeks later. Months after that, when I had moved houses again, I sat on my bed, staring at the wall, and remembered what she said. I slid the pocketknife out of my bag and cradled it in my hands, running my fingers over the ridges and lines, admiring how small it was. Then I went to the bathroom, pressed the blade to my arm, and cut. The first few times, it was uncomfortable. But after a few cuts, the pain almost seemed to vanish, and all that was left was a sense of floating. There was a disconnect between me and my body, much like I had sometimes when getting punished, but for some reason, it felt okay. I was in control this time. I could stop when I wanted to. I could keep going if I wanted to. Cleaning up was the hard part. I already knew how to bandage myself, how to hide bruises and welts under clothing, but this time there was more blood, blood I had to hide not just from workers but from the other people in the house. I started wearing long sleeves all year to hide both the injuries and the scars. It only got worse. After a year of cutting, I was addicted. The slide of the blade on my arm, the way my skin split, the red that welled up, the pain that faded when I didn't move, and the knowledge that I was the one doing it, all of it turned any sense of fear and disgust into pleasure, into need. I didn't do it at every house, just the ones that were bad. After I turned ten, there weren't any good ones anymore. The last good one had been when I was eight. I liked it. The couple were kind, they were careful, they cared about us. But the system on that planet made a new rule, one they didn't want to follow, and they lost their ability to keep us. I wanted to stay there. But the workers didn't let me. Instead, I went to the next house and met Savannah. I wasn't punishing myself, not always. Mostly, it was to feel something, anything, even if it hurt. But sometimes I did it so I had control over what happened. I don't think I can stop now. I don't think I can get out. I was doomed from the moment I placed the blade to my skin at nine years old. Maybe I was doomed from the moment I opened the door to the bathroom, the moment Savannah told me why she cut, the moment she handed me the pocketknife. Maybe I was doomed the moment I was placed in the same house as her. Or maybe I was doomed the moment I left the nice couple's house. Maybe I was doomed the moment Andy set the kitchen on fire when I was six. Maybe I was doomed the moment I cried to the worker in my second house. Maybe I was doomed the moment that man raised his hand against me. Maybe I was doomed when I arrived there as a baby, already leaving my first placement. Maybe it was the moment I entered the system, parents dead in an accident, records sealed to prevent me from reading them, alone and without family. Maybe I was doomed the moment I was born.
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Author's Notes
Yeah, so this might be one of the darkest things I've written. A reminder that this isn't my own experience, it's a fictional character's backstory, and her personal experience with it. Also, despite whatever day it is now, I started this on October 5th, which is the character's birthday.