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Usually, I felt pride staring at the only decorations on my bedroom wall. Today, I stared at it, as the picture-perfect frames and medals covering my shelves pierced deep through me.
I just can’t live up to her expectations, could it possibly be… that I’m not good enough?
I knew what was coming to me, something deserved. In this harsh world, it was detrimental to be less than perfect, to waste your potential.
My mother taught that to me, you know? It’s a lesson I would hold dear to my heart, always. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anything that would push me back from reaching my true potential.
Today, I failed. I messed up. It was my fault. The possible punishment loomed over me, clouding my mind.
And don’t you dare think I was scared.
I didn’t even bother to turn the lights on, I didn’t care. Anything to hide from the world. They can’t know.
A stern figure peered into the small gap of light I had left. Another thing I could have prevented.
“Sylvia… Oh Sylvia, you know I don’t mean harm.”
“No…”
“But, some things must be done, you know? It’s just what has to happen.”
I stayed silent, knowing the truth to come.
“Your father would be so disappointed in you. Sylvia, do you want that?”
I wanted to cry, to scream, ‘I don’t care what my father thinks!’, why would I care about a man that did nothing for me! But I knew better. I knew how to restrain myself from doing something I would regret.
The smallest of tears silently slipped beneath my eyelids. I didn’t sob, I could never sob. I shook, clothed by the darkness.
My eyes widened as I heard the dreaded sound of a snap. I almost wanted to plead with her to stop. Please stop. I don’t want this, I don’t need this, I don’t need to be perfect, I am perfect. But I just stayed, kneeling down, not even daring to look up at myself in the mirror in front of me.
A sharp pain rushed through me. The smallest of sounds threatened to make its way out of me. Then another. Then another.
“My Sylvia… are you crying?” She said, not in a reassuring voice, but a strict tone.
“No. No I’m not. It’s just— just a little pain.”
“Good.”
She slammed the door shut. I rose. It hurt. My knees pained from kneeling for so long. On limp legs, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. And I thought. I thought and thought and thought.
I thought about all the shame I felt. Who cares about shame anyway? Who cares? Who f—--ing cares? I hate this. I hate everything. Why do I have to rely on her? Why can’t I do it by myself? Why do I hate everything? Why does nobody like me? Why do I care? Why isn’t my life anything more than just—
Sylvia, I hate you! My eyes were red as if I was going to start crying. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. All I wanted was for her to feel hurt.
“I hate you!” I whispered in a scream, talking to no one but the mirror, pretending it was her. In a fit of rage, I slammed my fist against it. Again and again.
“Why? Why every single damn time, do you–” I didn’t even care about the tears streaming down me. Don’t you dare think it was anything except for pure passion.
It broke. I stopped, in instant regret of what I’ve done. The glass shard had grazed against my hand, leaving its red blood trace behind on my hand. I gripped it tighter. I don’t know what came over me.
“It’s— it’s just a little bit of hurt, nothing that bad, Sylvia. Nothing that–”
I stared at my work of art, done on myself. My hands and face and everything else were covered with metallic red blood. I didn’t show any emotion on my face.
I spent the next few hours cleaning myself up. It wasn’t hard, I wasn’t very hurt.
At the end of it all, I stared at myself through the mirror. A crack ran through it. I noticed that my expression held an absolute depression.
But, I did not become weak.
After all, there was no cut. It was just a little scratch.