"You know, it's kind of gross that you're just throwing your cigarette butt around for everyone to see," I remarked rudely to the girl standing in front of me in line for the Giant Drop.

"Ex-ky-oose me?" she asked incredulously, as though I had gone up to her and asked her to strip down naked in front of the entire amusement park and do a little jig. I pushed a lock of sandy-brownish hair out of my face (hair which my mother claimed was too long and unbecoming of a young boy) so I could look her indignantly in the eyes.

"Well, that's what the garbage can is for." I motioned to the large brown rubbage bin right next to the ground where she had thrown the butt of her cancer stick.

"Dude, it would light the fucking trash on fire!" she shrieked, and then she and her friend laughed at me, and ugly, high-pitched jeering.

"That's why you put it out first." They decided to ignore my logic, and simply cackle once again.

"Gutterslut," I muttered bitterly.

So, the line moved at little more than a snail's pace over the course of about five minutes. As I stood there, trying to forget the feeling of blood pooling at my motionless feet and the humidity making me dizzy, I found myself staring at the two girls in front of me again. They were giggling and chatting the way teenage girls do, most likely having forgotten about me and my audacity to have reprimanded them. For whatever reason, my attention was drawn to the arms of the girl whom I had yelled at. It was full of long, thick scars. I couldn't imagine from what. They seemed like rather rowdy girls to me. Did she get in a fight or something? Nah. Wrestling with a lawn mower? No, that's something a guy would more likely do... namely, me.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that she had gotten into a motorcycle accident. I could just picture her flying down the road without helmet, her crimped blonde hair rippling madly behind her. She would be clinging lovingly around the waist of her boyfriend as he sped a Harley down the highway and BOOM! Someone didn't watch where they were going, and the unfortunate motorcyclists were flung onto the harsh, unyielding concrete as cars skidded around them, resulting in a destroyed Harley, cuts and scrapes galore, and God knows what else.

Now, it being at least three years later, I sit on the floor of my darkened bedroom and watch the tiny amber glow of my last candle dance about. It's kind of a little ritual I have; once the tragic nagging, abuse, confusion, and mockery of the day is over, once the sun has worn out its welcome, I retire to my little shabby sanctuary above the dining room in our humble little suburban home and light three candles. I let them exhaust themselves one by one, and when there is only one left burning, I know it is time.

Carefully, I reach into my little knapsack under my bed and pull out my sharp, loyal companion, the only one I can count on at this point, the only one I know will always be there. I search for a place on my body, anywhere on my body, that has not yet been ripped apart by none other than your's truly. Tonight, I decide it's my stomach, a thin and sunken area from so many nauseous days of being too upset to eat a damn thing.

I waste no time, the last flame has shrunken to about the size of a small paperclip, so I run the blade in a swift line from the edge of a broken rib all the way to my bellybutton. It's a good razorblade, nice and sharp so you don't have too press to hard to get the results you want... nay, the results that you NEED.

I hit a good spot, nice and deep, too, for within a few seconds, that sweet and comforting red liquid leaks out of me like water runs out of a faucet--nice and easy. I relish at the feeling of all this pent-up emotional pain being slowly but surely being converted into physical pain, and the physical pain draining out like sewage. Soon, I will be clean again, at least until the next time around.

As the last tiny flame grows ever smaller, I laugh slightly to myself and watch the crimson streams of my own freedom trickle down the side of my starving belly and stain my green boxers that show over the top of my baggy skater jeans. I think about the girl who was standing in front of me at the amusement park one day. I don't know how on earth she popped into my head at that moment, but it seemed to fit--I remembered her arms. I smiled tiredly and whispered to myself, "Motorcycle accident, indeed."