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Author’s Note: This, I would have said until about two days ago, was my most personal piece of writing that I’d ever let anyone read. Now I doubt it is, but it’s still an exploration of a lot of emotions and it really does tell a story of what I’ve been going through. It started as a short story, but I had so much to say and so much I needed to explore that it’s grown into more than one parts, about different things, different parts and different people, but relating to the same problem. I think you could say I’m pretty proud of most of it. And thanks to Sab for hosting it more importantly. Luv ya.

PART ONE
 It hurt, but it hurt more not to. I don’t know where I found the courage, where I found the stupidity even, but it was there. I was in complete control, but I was out of control. My hands shook and I didn’t know what I was doing. But I knew, somewhere in me, I knew what I was doing by taking the blade, I knew it was sharp and could cut me, but it did not register. All I knew was that I found a moment of clarity. It made sense, things made sense, the fear, the inadequacies, the emotions I did not understand were no longer there. Nothing mattered. All my worries weren’t there. It was so simple. The solution I had been craving, I had found it. Finally I knew again what control was, what happiness was and everything I dreaded had vanished, flown out of my body as a thin line of red blood formed on my wrist.
It was only then I came back, came back from whatever world had occupied my mind and my body and realised what I had done. Writing this now, trying to recollect the events, I do not know how long I stood like that, unaware of anything but my blood, my gaze locked on it. My brain had so many thoughts, so many individual and stupid thoughts, but it was clear. I did not know anything, I could not think anything. I was mad at myself, I did not understand how I could do such a thing and yet I felt relieved. I felt as though I was doing something for myself that was helping.
They got home about half an hour ago. Maybe an hour. I’m not sure. They didn’t say anything. Of course they asked how my day had been and if I was feeling better, but that was it. It was normal conversation, conversation that was strained and pointless, but something I’m used to. Nothing has changed. Except of course, I feel better. I do feel better, there is something in me that changed, whether it be through the loss of some part or the creation of another. I feel normal even. Normal. I didn’t even think I knew what that word meant anymore. But I feel it again.

+ + +

He took the blade in his hand and gently ran it along the edge of his finger. Not hard enough so it would bleed, but more in an attempt to test the sharpness. It was sharp, just the way he liked it. It was easier to draw blood with sharp objects with a smaller amount of pain. Of course it still hurt, hurt a little anyway, but what was to be expected when someone cut their own flesh? But the sharper the better. The pain was instantaneous and fleeting. The relief, the pleasure, the release was stronger.

He pulled his sleeve up, resting the fabric on his elbow and brought the blade closer to his skin. Briefly he paused, took a deep breath and looked upwards. He could feel his heart beat slowly speeding up with anticipation and he sighed to himself. Everything was too much for him now. Everything was a load, everything demanded attention and care he could not provide and everything hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt to wake up and it hurt to go to sleep. He tried to persuade himself he did not care, but he did. He cared a lot.

The blade was cold and calming. It did not hurt. It helped. It was the only thing that helped. If he told anyone else of that, they would have laughed and thought him crazy. People did not understand how cutting could help, how it could provide comfort, how the sight of blood was solace. He did not know why, he could offer no explanation, but he knew it helped. He knew when he had a blade things were not so bad. If they could see that, if they could conceive that without it, he was broken. With it, he was whole.
+ + +
 He saw the cut today. We were playing and it was getting hot. Ike kept asking why I didn’t take off the long sleeve shirt I was wearing. He just kept on asking and asking, in his normally persistent way. I told him I wasn’t hot, but he didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe me even. When I thought he and Zac weren’t looking, I took off the shirt and we kept playing. I forgot about it even, got lost in the world of music and I didn’t even stop to think that they could see it. I don’t know when they saw it, but Ike came up to me afterwards and asked about it.

 I just didn’t know what to say. I could have told the truth I know, but the truth is, I don’t want people to know. I know if I told, they would not understand and they’d label me as crazy and I’d end up at some therapist talking about things I’d prefer to bury. Ike would look at me, shock and confusion in his eyes and he would not know what to do. He would not know it is not serious and he would tell Mom and Dad and it would all be over. I know they would not see it the way I see it. I would be without my comfort. I would be broken.

+ + +
 He shut the door. The bathroom seemed cold and sterile, the white tiles reflecting the artificial light around him, providing him with a sense of isolation and indifference. He hurt, but he did not have to hurt. Everything hurt. Everything was too much. He could not continue to smile and to laugh because that was what people expected of him. He had to be himself, but he did not know who that person was. He wanted to return to normal, what he had always known and he could only do that after he had cut himself.

 The tears no longer came. He needed release, but crying was not release. Crying was nothing anymore, no matter how sad he was, he could not cry. He would sit there, wishing he could cry, wishing he could feel better, wishing for anything that would take away some of his pain. Too often he felt numb, covered by a cloud of smoke that left him incapable of relating and understanding.

 He pulled the razor apart, separating it easily with his nimble fingers from much experience and now he held the blade delicately. It was beautiful, so cool and sharp, polished brightly so the silver colour shone. It was everything he needed. He did not need their love and affection, it offered him so little. He did not need adoration world wide. He just needed this.

+ + +

It doesn’t mean anything. What I do doesn’t mean that I’m crazy, it just means that I want to be okay, but that knowledge seems to be just with me and not the people around me. Ike told Zac about the cut on my wrist, I know he did and I know Zac thinks it means I’m insane. He was looking at me today, almost as though he didn’t even know who I was. Three or four times he started to say something to me, but he never got further than just uttering my name. But I saw the look in his eyes, I saw that look that told me he did not understand, that the knowledge Ike had given him was so far out of his grasp.
 I just don’t see how he could have told. Ike did not even talk to me, he just went straight to Zac without anything at all. To our younger brother who should not have to deal with this. I wish I could just tell Zac that it didn’t mean anything, that it doesn’t mean anything because it’s the truth. But to admit that to him, it’s an admission of what I do and I want that as a secret. Right now, I’m not comfortable with confirming anything. To do that would lead to so much and I can’t deal with that now. I just can’t

PART TWO
 What would happen if he told them? If he asked to talk to his parents, sat them down and told them the truth? If he lifted up the sleeve of his long sleeve shirt and revealed to them the evidence of his unhappiness and despair? If he told them of the fresh cuts and older scars on his upper legs? He wanted to be honest with them sometimes. He really did. He wanted to do what he imagined, he had nightmares where other people revealed it to them, revealed it to all of them and he hated it. He hated the possibility of not being the one to be honest with them. But he could not tell them.

 He had planned it all. He had been lying in bed one night, crying, crying softly to himself because he wasn’t sure if his brothers were awake and he could hear the echo of a TV from where they were sitting. He imagined himself getting up, crawling out of bed and walking slowly to them. He visualized the way they would gasp at the tears on his cheeks, knowing it was not like him to cry, to admit to a weakness. He thought up the way he would sit down on the couch opposite them and he knew the tone he would say “Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.” He knew everything about it. He had thought about it again and again, time after time and he knew the situation so well. He had played over every detail, important or tiny, in his head a billion times. He had imagined it. He knew it.

 She would be sitting there in her chair closer to the TV because of the hearing problems she continuously tried to deny. There would be a table between them and on her side, neatly placed on the slate coaster would be the never-empty cup of tepid coffee. In her hands would be the needlework that had been her only hobby for as long as he could remember. She would briefly look up at him as he entered, but not say anything. She always waited for him to start. She always had. But she would look at him with interest for that short second, because she would know there was something wrong. She would understand such a situation was unusual and she would wait for him to reveal everything. She would not even dream of what he was about to say. She had seen the cuts, he knew that, he was positive of it, but she had believed his excuses. She always did.

 He had always been harder to fool. He was a strong man, a dependable man, though such a fact would be hard to decipher because he knew his hand would be dropped over the edge of his chair so he could pat the dog. Resting on the arm of the chair would be a half-empty glass of scotch, the liquid gleaming through the well-cut crystal. His bare feet would be perched up on the edge of the wooden table and he would appear to be watching the television, though he had no real interest in whatever program she had chosen. He would look up as he walked into the room, meet his eye and smile, maybe make some comment about who it was, or say some silly joke that only fathers ever seem to appreciate. He would not consider there was something wrong. He would assume it was an attempt to be a close family, that he could not sleep and decided he wanted to talk to his parents. He always hoped for the best when it came to his family, even though in other areas of life he was a pessimist. He would not want to know what he had to say.

 The time he would intrude upon was their time. It was the time they recounted the day and talked about upcoming events and basked in the fact they still loved each other after so many years of marriage. It was the only time they felt peace, between the daily demands that came along with their respective jobs or the needs of the many young children in the house. Of course it was often interrupted with good night conversations, the need to make new cups of coffee and the other nightly rituals of their house, but in essence it was their time. It was their time because it was one of the few remainders of pre-married life, where fewer concerns impinged on daily life and things were on the whole easier.

 He knew it all. He knew the rituals, he knew the physicality of the room and the way his parents would be sitting and what they would be doing and how he would enter the room and what tone he would use and whether or not he would cry or try and remain strong, but there was one important thing he did not know. He did not know the way they would react. He did not know the way they would take his news and he could not know until he dared to tell them. But he could not dare that. It was too much of a risk, it jeopardized too many things he was not willing to lose. He could not tell them without knowing how they would take it and he could not know how they would take it unless he told them.

 Sometimes he imagined they would just sit there. Just sit there in silence, unable to say a single word, incapable of portraying the shock and fear they held inside. They would not understand; logically they would. Logically they would know what the scars and cuts meant, but they would not understand emotionally. They would be emotionally crippled. They would need to ask questions in order to find the story behind what he had revealed, questions he could not answer. They would ask him why, beg him to shed some light on why he felt so lost and why he found solace the way he did. They would ask him why he felt more dead than alive and why the only time he felt less broken and like a human being was when he held a blade in his hand and cut his skin. Then they would immediately promise to make him a therapy appointment for as soon as he could get one.

 Other times he would see her cry. He would say the words and she would break down, dropping whatever latest needlework she held in her lap and cry. He would not know what to do, whether to go to her, or move to him. He would look at him for a moment, questioning the knowledge his son had just provided him with and then realise he was paralyzed, realise even if he wanted to, he could not go to either of them because his legs would refuse to co-operate with his mind and move. He would then say anything that came into his head, anything that he hoped might take away some of the pain he had inflicted on them. He would ramble, saying it was not their fault, that he really was okay now and he just thought they should know. She would continue to cry and he would not be able to stir, both of them immobilized and unwilling to discover the truth for fear of what it might bring.

 And then, he would tell them and they would respond in a nonchalant way, uncaring of what had just been revealed to them. They would laugh and say they all ready knew, or that he was just being stupid and of course he didn’t cut, they would say they did not care, that he was old enough to be living in his own life without interference from them and he could do what he wanted. They would call him a drama queen and tell him to grow up, deny the cuts all over him and put them down to careless accidents, all of which had been his fault anyway. Then they would tell him to go to bed and stop meddling in their private time.
 He wanted to tell them. They had noticed things were wrong. He often thought parents knew more about their children than they ever dared to admit and he knew they had noticed his odd behaviour, his erratic moods and the way he had pushed everyone away.  He doubted they believed his excuses, but he could not tell them. He feared too much the way they would react, the way they would dismiss his concerns or the way they would simply freeze and not understand or the way they would take them too seriously. And he feared the eventual consequences of telling them. Once they got over their shock, he did not know what they would do and he had heard too many stories to not worry about the outcome. No, he could not tell them.

PART THREE

 He needed it. His body craved it, ached for it, yearned for it. He needed it, he needed to take a blade in his hands and see the blood. He needed it. Things were too much, he could not smile any more, he could not pretend things were okay when everything was crashing down around him, he could not face the simple events of getting up every morning and what the consequences of that would be. Everything had changed, everything and it meant so much. He had changed and he could not continue the way things had been. His defenses were down, he was vulnerable and it hurt too much. Everything hurt. Every part of him hurt, throbbed, every part of him needed this. He could not continue. He could not.

 It controlled his every thought. He had tried to calm himself down, tried to stop it consuming his mind, tried to think of anything, do anything that might take away the complete desperation he felt. He had scratched at his wrist, clawed at it, leaving the skin with a reddish tinge, hoping that it might do something. He did not break the skin, it seemed like a near impossible task with such short nails, but he continued to scratch, running his nails wildly across his wrist, so filled with an acute need that he was barely aware of what he had been doing. It had done nothing. Nothing at all. It had left his skin raw and red, but it did not comfort him. It made him more desperate, more sure, more positive that the only thing that could provide relief was sharp and silver. It was the only thing that could help him now.

 The door opened and he quickly covered his wrist. There was not blood no, but it was still evident what he had done. They always looked at his wrist, silently taking it all in, trying despairingly to gleam some knowledge of what he had done. They worried about him, he knew it when he looked into their eyes, he knew it when they kept their distance from him and he knew it in the silence that echoed around them. It always happened now. What he did put a division between them, it said they were normal, and he was abnormal, that they were sane and he was crazy, that they were okay and he was not. They did not see it was his way of being normal, his way of being sane, the only way he knew how to be okay. They saw it as evidence of his faults and he saw it as a saviour. They did not understand him anymore.
 
“Hi,” His older brother walked into the room and he took a deep breath. They had always been so close. They had been so close, they could share anything, share anything at all, his brother told him about the girls he liked and what he had done with them, what he feared, what he dreamed and he did the same. He had done the same. Now he said nothing. Now he looked away for fear his brother could learn something. Now he pushed Isaac away in any possible way he could. Now he avoided him, avoided going to bed when he knew his older brother would be awake because he knew that was when they had always talked. Now he stayed away from the treehouse because he remembered the admissions that had taken place there. Now he tried desperately not to be alone with Isaac. He hated it. He physically hated it. He loved his brother, but his brother could never be there the way he needed, his brother could never help him the way he needed help. The blade was the only thing that could do that. It had the power. His brother did not.

 He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He could not say anything. He could not formulate words, expressions, sounds, to express what he felt because his brain was being controlled by a need for something else, a desire, a desperation that had taken him over. He was drowning in it, drowning in a sea of his own blood, drowning and unable to concentrate on anything more than the human necessity to breathe. To speak required too much thought, too much brain power he did not have.

 “Are you going to say anything?” His brother waited for a few moments before he said anything. He had hoped Taylor would speak, he had hoped he would make it easier for him, he had hoped he would somehow achieve a breakthrough and he had hoped things were okay. He always hoped this, he needed it, just as much as his brother needed to cut. He needed things to be okay and yet they never were. He could look into his younger brother’s eyes and he knew things were not okay. He could look to Tay’s arms, his legs and he knew things were not okay. His eyes were distant and cold, masking the actual fear and vulnerability he truly felt. His arms and legs were lined with cuts, meticulous cuts each the same length and the same distance apart. They were perfect, it was obvious to him, to everyone that saw them, Taylor took pride in what he did. He made sure they were perfect, he made sure that they were neat and how he wanted them. There was more to what he did than he would admit. There was an aspect of control, of security, of perfection he never mentioned to anyone. “Come on Tay. Just say something. I don’t care what,” Why he felt so desperate for words, he did not know. There was no victory in making Taylor speak, he knew that. There was nothing in it that would take everything away, benefit him, benefit Taylor, nor was it anything that would help. If his brother did speak, it would be words he felt compelled to say and that was no victory. That was nothing at all. Yet he needed it. He needed to know that Taylor was not so lost in his own world that he could not even speak. There was no victory in it, but there was some comfort.

 Isaac was desperate, he knew that. He was practically pleading with him to speak, but he could not find a voice. He could not find a way of expressing anything, not in the way his brother wanted him to, because his expression was his cuts. They said all that needed to be said. They told people he wanted to be okay, they told people he was struggling with every day that passed, they told people he would do so much to grasp happiness once more, they told people he desired perfection, even though he knew no one could be perfect, they told people everything was not fine and they could not expect it to be. They said that, but no one could hear it. They needed more. They needed his words, any words, if they were the truth or if they were lies.
 “Ike, I don’t know what to say, cause you don’t want the truth. You don’t want to hear that I’m falling. You want me to say everything is fine and it’s not.”

PART FOUR

 The room was silent as Ike sat there. Just that was enough to make him feel uncomfortable. The room was never silent, it simply wasn’t. Their house was rarely quiet, there was always something happening somewhere, and here, the place he associated most with music and noise, it was never silent. Even if he was in there alone, he would be playing, but now he couldn’t. Ike’s guitar rested in his lap, melodies dancing around his head, begging him to pluck them out of their semi-state and bring them into existence, yet his fingers refused to play the notes. He had tried, but after a series of wrong chords, wrong rhythms, Ike had given up. It didn’t seem worth it. He yearned to play, but his mind was too caught up in other things, in fears and in hopes to give attention to the instrument that rested on his legs.

 Ike considered standing up and walking out of the room. He didn’t even know why he was there, he had been wandering around the house, restless and unable to find anything to keep him occupied for a short period of time. Before, Ike would have found his brothers and asked if they could jam for awhile, but there seemed little point now. Zac was brooding, up in the tree house with his notepad, probably writing some songs and Taylor was in their room, simply lying there and not moving. They were all lost in their own world, their own private worlds because what Taylor did effected them. It did, they tried to deny it, but they all knew it at. It was harder to look at each other now; Taylor looked at them now and he saw people who could not help him, who in their own way without any intentions had caused some of the problems he had and he saw people who knew the truth about him. Ike and Zac could not look at Taylor without wondering when the last time he had cut was, wondering why he did it, wondering what they could do to help. Then there was him and Zac. Zac had pretended Ike was crazy when he’d told him. He’d denied it, said that Ike must have been mistaken and then later accused him of merely making up stories and causing trouble, Ike hadn’t forgotten that. Zac had not been able to grasp what it meant, or he did not want to grasp what it meant. Ike wasn’t sure which was more correct to say, though he suspected that Zac merely did not want to know. So they wanted to help him, they did, neither Zac or Ike would ever have disputed that, but it had never worked. They had tried, tried only to fail.

 Too often it seemed as though nothing could help. Ike had tried everything he knew, giving Taylor space, not leaving him alone, being there when he cried or subtly leaving the room. He had shared kind words, told his brother what he really felt about him, both the positive and the negative, like how he loved him, how he would do anything Taylor wanted of him, but also that he did not understand, that the fact his brother took a blade to his wrist, his legs, anywhere on his body scared him. Ike had been honest, he had lied because he thought it was what Taylor wanted to hear. Yet nothing helped, Ike felt as though he was trying desperately, opening his heart to someone who did not want to receive it, just because he had to and that it was nothing more than a token gesture expected of him. It wasn’t as though Taylor really wanted it anyway. He had all he wanted.

 He’d cut again. Ike knew it, he had seen the blood on his arms and yet Ike didn’t know what to do about it. He walked into their room, the place Taylor spent most of his time in and there was blood on his arms. Taylor had been flushed, his eyes red as though he had been crying, yet at the same time, there was something in them that told Ike he was more relaxed. There was something in his eyes that indicated comfort and the fact he was feeling better. It had shocked him at first, confused him, made him wonder how something so destructive could actually help. Ike could never see cutting as something that helped, something that took his brother’s pain away, he would always see it as something evil and hurtful and Ike doubted he would ever understand how Taylor could take a blade and cut himself. He could not listen to the feeble excuses of how it helped, he could not look into his brothers eyes, see all the pain and accept that it took away what was wrong with Taylor and made it all better.

 But yet, Taylor had proved him wrong. So many times Ike could remember, Tay had been moody, quiet, angry, frustrated, upset, crying, so many different negative emotions that had invaded his brain and refused to leave him with peace and he had turned to his blade and come back with the serenity he so desired. That scared Ike, frightened him more than he would ever admit to anyone.
Taylor always wanted to be independent, act on his own, yet he never achieved it. He always had to rely on people, as much as he tried to isolate himself from people, he never succeeded and Ike was used to that. So many times he had to help Taylor and Ike had always done so, never grudgingly because Taylor was his brother and it was one of his duties, part of his role to ensure he was happy. He and Zac, they were always there for Tay, even when he tried to deny it, when he tried to push them aside. They were there for him now, only he could not see it, he did not want to see it. He found comfort, found his strength in something else that Ike and Zac could not compete with. The silver of the blade, the sharpness, it’s ability to draw blood, that was what his new companion offered. And Ike feared that was all Taylor wanted, all Taylor had managed to persuade himself he needed.

 When Ike looked at Taylor, he had that confirmation. His eyes were distant, unfocused and uncaring. Only through blood did he find a way of caring. Only through blood did Taylor even realise he was human, he did not feel it, he felt so far from it, so dead, but he was human. His blood proved it. Ike could not provide Taylor with any evidence he was human, it was something he could not do, something he would never be able to do, his words may have hurt Taylor, deep inside where he could not discard all his emotions, but they did not draw blood. They may have caused the passing of hurt in his brother’s penetrating blue eyes, a few tears in private, maybe some blood when he was alone, but Ike himself did not draw the blood. He did not have the power, he had nothing and all that Taylor needed fitted in the palm of his hand.

PART FIVE

 Zac closed the door behind him, careful to ensure it did not make excessive noise and wake his sleeping older brother. He didn’t know what he was doing, why he was doing it, but there was something that drew Zac to Taylor at that precise moment. He had walked into the room, for no real reason, but now Zac knew why he was there. As Taylor slept, he was vulnerable. He was true, he was the real person without any facades and it had been a long time since Zac had seen that. Too often Taylor pretended. Whether he simply hid and made himself a whole new personality, made himself someone who was happy, not someone who was falling apart, or whether he lied and avoided parts of him he did not want people to understand. There was the Taylor everyone saw, the outer confidence and energy and there was the real Taylor. Before, Zac knew who the real Taylor was. Now, he did not have a clue. He looked at his brother and he saw a stranger. He saw someone he did not know and it hurt.

 But as Taylor lay there, the covers slipping off his upper body, Zac was able to gain some insight. The person in front was still his brother. He slept the same way, resting on his side, his back facing the wall, his hands one lying palm up on the other under his head. Zac had always thought it looked uncomfortable, so different to the stretched out way he slept, but he recognised it. Lying there, Taylor was not a different person. He was Zac’s older brother, someone he had the utmost respect for, someone who had seen him at his worst and at his best, someone he had seen at his worst and at his best, someone who was constantly there for him, who had been there when he cried and had been there when he laughed. It was his brother, the brother he teased constantly, but the brother he loved more than life itself. It was Taylor, the person Zac turned to for advice, the person who had taught him so much, about his life, about girls, about anything he needed information on. It was him, the one who stayed up late at night just so they could talk, the one who had never deserted him and always provided him with a form of silent strength, never selfless in his help for Zac. That was who lay in front of him, it was Taylor in his truest form, a form he had tried to hide from everyone in the past months, but he was there.

 Zac smiled sadly to himself. He knew his brother, he always had, but there was more than what he saw. He saw the old Taylor, he saw the one before everything went spiraling out of control, the one who did not cut. He understood self-injury, logically and in principle. He had read everything he could find on the topic, absorbing any knowledge, learning any personal stories, trying to understand the emotions and Zac thought he understood, but only for other people. He understood it for the shadows of people who had provided him with the wisdom, people who were only people to him because of their words and he still placed Taylor in a different category. It was his brother, it was Taylor, the one he loved so much and he did not cut. He could not. Taylor didn’t do things like that. Taylor was too smart, too sensible, too in control.

 Yet he did do it. Zac knew that. Zac had seen that, seen the scars and cuts on his body, seen all the evidence he should have needed, but he did not believe it. He could not believe it. Even as he sat there, he could see them. Taylor’s visible arm were littered with fresh incisions, scars and healing cuts, all different in some ways, but even more similar in others. They were neat, methodical and systematic, the same distance apart, the same length and on closer inspection, Zac could see the depth and width was similar. Despite their varying states, some just a darker pink, some covered in scabs and some still with dried blood clinging, they were the same. Zac wanted to laugh bitterly when he saw that, shocked and amused that Taylor’s desperate need for perfection had continued into his cutting.

 He looked like such a child, such a baby while he slept and for a moment, Zac wondered what he was doing. There was such an innocence to Taylor at that moment and in sleep, he looked almost happy and Zac thought he probably should not have been inspecting his brother as he was, all too aware that if Taylor woke up, he would shy away from Zac or be angry with him. It was an invasion in a sense, though Zac could not take his eyes away from his brother. Taylor was older than him by 2 years, 7 months and 8 days, yet as he lay there, the numbers faded into mere insignificance as Zac felt so much older. That division of time meant nothing to them, it did not pass into his mind that in reality, Taylor was 948 days older than he was, because he was the child, the one who needed help. He was always the one who needed taking care of, Taylor was the weak one, the one who tried to stay strong, but past the need he felt to help others, he was not strong. As little children, Taylor had always taken on the “big brother” role, defending Zac in fights and administering first aid after the numerous accidents Zac always seemed prone to, but as they had grown up, their roles had reversed. Zac could recall so many times he had to help Taylor deal with it all, so many times he had to ensure that his older brother did not retreat into himself and avoid things he had to think about. There so many times he had walked in on Taylor crying, unable to provide an explanation for the tears, Zac had comforted him, doing all that Taylor wanted at then and not mentioning it again. There was an unspoken promise between the two of them that such things would occur. Ike was a part of such an agreement as well, but often it was just them.

 It hurt to be pushed away. Zac had tried to reach out to Taylor, but he never responded in the way Zac wished. It was almost as though he tried to deny the relationship because it hurt him too much, it hurt too much to acknowledge that he had someone who could see through everything he put up and still love him for all that he was and not all that he pretended to be. Taylor saw Zac as a challenge, as someone who understood and knew him all too well and someone who would not stand by as Taylor tried to persuade himself of his faults and inadequacies. Or at least that was Zac thought. That was what he guessed anyway, what he hoped it to be. Somehow if Zac could think he was being pushed away because Taylor cared about him it made it easier.

 Almost as though he was aware of Zac watching him, Taylor rolled over, so his brother’s watchful eyes could no longer see his face, could no longer search for answers that he would have preferred stayed hidden.  As he did so, the blankets slipped further down his chest and Taylor shivered from the sudden coldness he could feel. Zac smiled to himself, aware once again he was taking on the role of the older brother as he gently pulled the covers so they rested on Taylor’s shoulders once more. He waited for a moment to see if Tay would move anymore and then turned to head out the door.

 As Zac reached the doorway, he moved to look at Taylor once more. His older brother had snuggled further down into the covers, but other than that, he had not moved. For a moment, Zac wanted desperately to wake him, knowing that from the simple action of looking at his brother while he slept, he had gained more knowledge about Taylor than he had known for a long time and yet he would not have dared. Zac knew he would never be able to say such things to Taylor, nor did he really want to. There was some things that were best left unsaid, some things that could only be felt and not vocalised, some things that could only be solved by actions and gestures.
 “I love you Tay,” Zac was aware his brother would not hear, aware that he did not even really want Taylor to hear his words. Yet Zac had to say it because tomorrow he would return back to the simple gestures and actions that he feared would not help.

PART SIX
Dear God,
 My parents brought me up to believe in you, to believe you were powerful and all mighty, to believe that you controlled people’s fate and set out our destiny, to believe you were good and loving, that you were always there for me when I needed you, that you would just sense I needed help and be there without any more thought. And I did believe that. I really did. I prayed at night and thanked you for being the God my parents told me you were, thanked you for making my life what it was, I prayed when things were wrong, begged you to make them better and I prayed when I wanted something from you. Some prayers were answered, some were not and I kept believing. You had other people in the world to attend to, some young child in Tulsa could take second place for awhile and I always thought you’d come back to me. I always thought you’d be looking at some list up in heaven of the people who did want you wanted of them, a list compiling all of your followers who needed help and you would eventually reach me. But you haven’t and now I need to question whether you were ever really there to begin with, that you really ever cared and that all my prayers that came true were merely coincidences.

 I don’t know why I’m writing this. My faith has changed and I no longer believe in you. I want to, I really do because the idea someone is there for me is comforting, but I don’t. It hurts too much to know you’re ignoring me when I need solace so badly. But I don’t know why I’m writing, writing to you, writing this at all. Yes people have always told me that writing is therapeutic and I have found it so, but I have no desire to write about this. It hurts too much, not the physical pain I can handle, but the emotional pain I try and deny, the emotional pain I try and turn into physical pain simply because I cannot deal with it. People have told me writing everything down can bring it to an end, rid their minds of the confusions and contradictions plaguing them, and yet I don’t believe that. I’ve kept a journal for about 4 years now, maybe a bit less and I only started it at my parents’ request. After awhile, it grew on me, the idea of having a record, but I could never divulge all I wanted to. I read over it now and it’s fake, as though every word I’ve written is a lie and what I think I should believe, feel and say. I’m not honest there and I don’t know why I would suddenly change my mind in a letter to a God I don’t believe in.

 I’ve been cutting for several months now. I can’t remember the exact date when I started, so many days are a blur to me now not because I spend them lost in a daze, but because I never seem to be in one place for more than few days and the hours roll into one and have become entirely unimportant. It wasn’t too serious for awhile, just the occasional cut that didn’t even draw much blood. I mean, yeah to the average person it was still wrong and still indicated I was abnormal, but it never seemed that bad. Now it’s getting worse, the things that make me cut are more serious, the need to escape everything is stronger and the cuts I make are deeper. They sting for longer and the actual pain of inflicting them is worse. Now I feel more guilt when I cut because everyone wants me to stop, everyone except me of course.

 I don’ really know why I do it. My brothers, my family, my friends, everyone who actually knows, they always ask me. They look at my wrist and they need to find a way to comprehend what I do, but they can’t find one because I simply don’t know why. All I do know is that when things get too bad, when thoughts and fears flow around my head and I can’t think of anything but depressing thoughts, I get a blade and it’s easier. I cut myself and I see my blood and it’s easier. It takes it away, somehow, in a way I do not understand, but a way that’s there. If I told people that, they wouldn’t understand. I’ve tried. I was talking to Ike and I said to him that I didn’t get it, but how cutting did it never mattered to me, all that did pass my brain as a concern was that it worked. And it did. It does.

 Yes, I admit it’s destructive and I worry sometimes what the reaction of my future partner will be when she sees the scars all over me. All ready, my brothers cringe when they see them and that’s my brothers. I worry that I may go too far, cut a major vein and be unable to stop the bleeding. I don’t want to die. I want to get better. People think cutting is like slitting their wrists, it’s like the people who cut want to die, and yet it’s not like that. It’s not. I read it somewhere, people who slit their wrists want to die and people who cut just want to feel better. People just seem to have a problem with that distinction, but it’s true. Dying would be a pleasure sometimes, but I’m a fighter and I don’t want to hurt my family and friends that much. I just want the cloud that has invaded my head to go away, I just want the pain I feel at the most basic and simple everyday things to disappear and I don’t want to hurt so much. That is what I want. Cutting provides that, even if my tolerance has been built up and it’s harder to achieve.

 So God, I doubt you’ll ever find this out or if you do, you won’t respond to it. There was a time when I would have wanted you to, there was a time when I would have hated you for the lack of action. Now I don’t care. Now I just want it to go away and if you can provide me with that, then great. If you can’t, then I simply do not care. I don’t have time to care idly about someone I really do not believe in. You can take the challenge and try and meet it or you can ignore me. I’ve gotten used to that. Taylor Hanson never gets ignored, he’s a famous popstar who wears tight clothing and bends to the demands of others. He’s self-assured and confident and he doesn’t struggle with the desperate need to cut. I’m not that person and lots of people, you included, probably think that’s the source of all my problems. Instead of who they all think I am, I’m that insecure little kid from Tulsa, who never achieved his dream and is used to being ignored even by the God he always loved. Do whatever. Do what you can and are willing to do, but I don’t expect much from you. I used to, but that was the old me, not who I am now. I don’t expect anything from you.

PART SEVEN
Author’s Note: I had a happy ending to ‘Broken’ planned, even partly written. And I found it again and realised it glossed over everything and idealised Taylor’s recovery, which went against why I wrote this. Apart from it being therapy for me, it was a way of proving to those reading it that self-injury is a problem, a real serious problem that people cannot deny. So I’m not going to ever show anyone my attempt at an ending, I burnt it anyway (gotta love my fits of passion) However here’s my new one. It’s depressing, but if anyone actually believed this story was fiction, you were mistaken and this is how I feel now. I can tell you every single event that inspired this story, whether it be Zac watching Tay sleep which was slightly more cryptic, or Tay imagining telling his parents which was blatantly obvious. And though I know I should probably try and make this happy, I don’t have the energy for it anymore. So this is it. And it somehow became inspired by ‘Song to Sing’ without me even realising it.

 Waiting. Waiting for it all to disappear. Waiting for the pain to go away. Waiting to see the release, feel the blood, breathe his final breath, escape what had become something he hated. He had tried. He had resisted, he had pretended things didn’t hurt as much as they did. He had done what everyone else did, pretended there were not problems in his life, he looked only at the surface and didn’t divulge any deeper. He had hoped he could live by their rules for longer, that he would have been able to pretend he was still a member of the perfect family, with the perfect life, the perfect everything. He was perfect. He was perfect at pretending anyway.

 The candlelight flicked across the room and he closed his eyes briefly. The tiny flame, so strong, so vibrant, so full of warmth, yet so fragile. It would take nothing. It would take so little and it would be out. And it didn’t matter. He had fooled himself into believing it did, but he knew it didn’t. It hadn’t for so long. To be alive, it was to do more than to breathe. To feel. To experience. To laugh. To cry. That was to live. He was only breathing, going through the motions, pretending that he wasn’t drowning, pretending he hadn’t fallen, pretending he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t living. He was acting a part and that part, it was about to come to an end.

 He glanced at the door and sighed to himself. They wouldn’t come in. No one really cared anymore, they had all given up. Even if they didn’t say it, he could see it. In the way they smiled at him, a half smile that only passed as a shadow across their lips because they felt compelled to smile. Like him, they had a part to play and that part was as a brother, a sister, a mother, a father, a friend. In reality, he didn’t matter. In reality, what he was about to do, that was what mattered. That would set him free, set them free, give them all a chance to throw away their scripts and costumes and be honest. Honesty would kill him, but it would give them a chance. A chance to see, a chance to breathe, a chance to live.

 He had tried to fool himself into caring. He had. He had then tried not to care, because somehow not caring made it easy. If he didn’t care, he didn’t need to consider that all the people he loved had gone away, even if they were still there. They weren’t there, not emotionally. He couldn’t rely on them. Once he had been able to, but now he couldn’t. ‘Don’t bother talking to me,’ The words echoed in his head. They were his death. They were his call back to reality, the things that made him aware he could no longer continue in this semi-existence. They had woken him up and led him here. It had been an inevitable move, it would always happen, but that had brought it closer. It had destroyed his will, whatever will he had left. The one person who was there, who was always there had been pushed too far and he wasn’t going to be responsible for that anymore. Of course, he wanted to plead his case, he even had tried, but there had remained a barrier between them civility and polite words could not break down. And he was past caring.

 There was no one there. If he had cared. If he had been able to find it in him to care, he would he have stopped and realised he was all alone. They had given up on him. Not really a crime, not something to be angry about, because he had given up on himself. He no longer believed things would be okay, he no longer believed he could get over it. Once he had. Once he had found false hope, but now it was gone and he wasn’t sure he wanted it back. He had spent so long somewhere else, so long in a place that attempted to provide with comfort. It did sometimes, but so often, it just acted as a way to mask what he felt, what he thought, what he saw. He was good at masks, he was good at acting, but he wasn’t strong enough anymore. And he was fed up with pretending he was. He wouldn’t do it anymore.

 He moved closer and sat down on his bed. The darkness danced around him, tormenting him, playing with him, yet protecting him. In the pale light, he could not see. He could not be covered in a bright light and stared at in a way that revealed the truth. He hated it when people saw into him. He had simply been sitting there one day, when someone had looked into his eyes and told him there was sadness printed there. He hadn’t known what to say, he known it was the truth, but he had been shocked. Someone had read him, understood him and he had never spoken a word. It was easier to be in darkness. It understood him, it demanded nothing of him. Darkness asked no questions. It accepted what was and did not attempt to change that. There was no point anyway. It was too far gone, he was too far gone for any changes to take affect.

 The darkness also had one other special purpose. It hid his scars. It hid the fact he hurt himself. Despite everything had happened, despite his desire and need for sharp objects, despite whenever things were bad he found solace in seeing his own blood, he had never considered himself a self-injurer. He didn’t know why. But he still saw it as a matter of them and him. He had spoken to people, found comfort in people who did what he did and he related to them. Yet he saw himself as something different. He was better off than they were. They had awful backgrounds, they had a reason. What could he say? He had a loving family, friends, a good life. He had no reason. He just had a stupid inability to deal with his emotions. He had known that for so long. His emotions had always manifested themselves in tears, in frustration, in anger that he could not explain. It had never made sense, not to him, not to anyone else. He had given up trying to understand it. He had given up trying to understand everything.

 It was easier. It was better. It made sense. What he was about to, it was clear. It was right. If only they could see that. Why was it so hard for them? If they could come into his head for a moment, they would see. They would understand. He hurt them. He hurt himself. He couldn’t live. He couldn’t keep up a fight when all he wanted to do was lay down and hide from it. He couldn’t keep up his act any longer, it was draining him, frightening him because he was becoming more aware of how false it was. Before, it had been necessary, now it was just him lying again. It was all he did. He lied to them, he told them everything was all right. Acting was no better than lying. It was the same, it just took on a different form, a different show.
 He turned his wrist over and examined the veins. So fragile. So easy. So real. Maybe that would prove to him he was human again, prove he was capable of being something, being someone. He had forgotten how to do that. But he could bleed. He could do that. He had allowed himself to get entranced by the vulnerability before, he had allowed himself to almost give in, yet now it was different. Now he was here and now he was sure. He wasn’t searching anymore, he wasn’t looking for a reason when he knew he would never be able to find one. He wasn’t looking anymore, he had his own music, he had what he needed and he had never wanted this. He had not asked for it.

But now he held what he needed. He knew there was no reason, he had found through thinking only that there was no point in believing. His mind was his enemy. It was his mind that started it, but slowly his heart had come under the same spell. Now he just didn’t think this was right, he felt it was right. And that made the difference. He was broken, he knew it and he felt it, shattered into pieces that no one would ever be able to rebuild. He had gone on too long, he was too tired, he was sorry, mad at himself for being unable to provide more, but he was all ready gone. He was broken and it didn’t matter anymore. Not even to him.

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