Kris slowly opened his eyes and squinted, feeling disoriented and nauseous. He groaned and leaned forward as a massive headache began pounding at his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a palm against his forehead in an attempt to make the pain dissipate.

It didn't work.

Kris sighed and hesitantly looked down at his wrist.

He clenched his teeth at the sight of three, dark red slits running sideways across the skin. He felt his stomach lurch. His eyes drifted away from the cuts and to the floor. Crimson-tinted splatters covered the white bathroom tile, a pair of scissors lying not two feet away from where he sat. The silvery blades were sporting deep red stains that matched the ones on the ground.

His stomach twisted again, and a sour taste filled his mouth. He let out a careful breath and leaned his head back against the wall, running his left hand through his uncombed hair. When his stomach finally settled down, he shakily stood up and walked over to the sink.

After splashing his face with ice cold water, Kris grabbed a sponge from the counter, ran it under the water, and moved back to the spot where he'd been sitting. He scrubbed at the dried blood until the floor was nice and white and clean. He cleaned the scissors too, and when he was done, stored them in the medicine cabinet.

After pulling some bandages off the shelf, Kris cleaned his cuts with alcohol and tried to ignore the burning pain. He also tried not to look at the 20 other cuts-turned-to-scars that decorated the inside of his wrist and inner arm.

He looked anyway.

Kris stared at the thin, brown lines in disgust. They looked menacing and ugly in contrast to his smooth, pale skin.

The whole idea of cutting involved almost all of the things that he hated:  blood, the color red, pain, and the smell of rubbing alcohol. He hated scissors and the scars they left him, physically and mentally. He hated feeling half-dead and sick and ashamed. He hated wearing long sleeves. He hated the looks people gave him if they saw his scars. He hated pretending that, even if he was slowly dying on the inside, he was okay.

Kris had tried to stop. But no matter what he did, nothing ever seemed to work. Every year, on November 6, he'd find himself stumbling into the bathroom and reaching for the pair of razorsharp scissors. Things would get fuzzy afterwards, and he'd pass out completely. Kris would wake up the next day with no recollection of the night before. The only evidence of his self-mutilation would be splattered on the floor in bright red and carved into his right wrist.

Kris clenched his jaw as he wrapped the cuts, pulling his shirtsleeve down over the bandage when he was done. He stood leaning over the sink, too ashamed to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't seem to realize that tears had gathered in the corners of his eyes and were rolling down his cheeks. When he finally did notice, he blinked hard and roughly swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

He'd never get away from his scars. He'd never get away from those damned scissors. He’d never get away from the painful memories associated with them.

And the thing he wanted to get away from the most was something he'd be stuck with for the rest of his life.

Himself.

*