There's nothing I love more than a good locked door. Especially if I'm on the inside. When that happens, I become peaceful, like nothing could hurt me. That's what I needed then. A good, solid locked door. But I doubted that would happen. But, no. I was stuck with an overweight man in a 'wife-beater', as they call them now, yelling his lungs out at me. And what did he yell about? Damned if I knew. He jumped from topic to topic due to his untreated ADD. The topics varied from him being overweight, to my coming in late. He acted like my dad, somehow. But I suppose that's possible, since he did raise my dad.

That's right. The man yelling and screaming at me was none other than my own grandfather. And all I could do was sit and wait for him to finish. I had no clue how long this rant would last. He's had several over the years; the longest one lasting several hours until his voice was nothing but a whisper. But did that stop him? No. He kept on going until I finally got tired of him blaming everything on me and got up and left. He continued to screech at me with his barely-there voice, until he just threw an empty bottle at me.

That's how I ended up in the hospital for the first time, and how I learned the sanctity of a locked door. Inside the tiny hospital bathroom was the only place I could get away. Get away from my grandfather or Pappy as he wishes me to call him, and the doctors and nurses looking for answers for how a bottle collided with my skull. I couldn't answer them. So I hid in the bathroom and locked the door and waited until the voices were gone. But not just the voices outside the door, but inside the door too. But a locked door couldn't solve those. But the combination of a locked door and a blade did. I guess I was what they called a self mutilator, or maybe a cutter for short. I don't know. I was never really into labels.

Other than my home life, life was good for me. I kept the cuts to a place where no one could ever see them, my stomach. I couldn't tell my friends, although they frequently asked over that summer why I had bought a one piece instead of my usual skimpy two piece. My only answer was that I decided not to act so slutty and let the boys come to me. Not that they did, anyway. Before that one piece, I had boys lining up around the block. But after that one piece, they would hardly come onto my block. Oh, well, just another thing to cut about . . . slice. It kind of quieted the voices, the ones that were blaming me for the lack of attention. The ones that were telling me to forget the one piece and go out, buy a bra and thong set from victoria's secret and pass it off as a bikini, who cares about the scars, the scabs, the blood, the rumors. 'Become a whore' was what they were telling me. No. I may be a little crazy, but I still have my morals.

So, who knew that one wrong cut would end my life. Oops, did I say one? I mean about five different cuts, but, hey! Who's counting, anyway?

That was around the tenth visit to the hospital. Locked in the bathroom, rocking back in forth with a scalpel. I was in there because 'Pappy' kinda sorta 'grazed' me with a phillips head screwdriver. Ouch. It hurt like a bitch. So when the bleeding didn't stop, I took myself to the hospital. You see, I was smart. I would go to a different hospital every time, since there was well over twenty in my city. That way they couldn't detect abuse if it was happening, which it was.
So there I was, sitting on a hospital bed zoning in and out as the doctor explained that I would need a tetanus shot due to the unsanitary screwdriver that was dug into my skin. But my ears perked up when he told me that they had called my grandfather and he was very worried about me and he was on his way. Shit. That was one thing I didn't need.


He walked in with an actual shirt on this time, not just the plain, old wife-beater he normally wore when yelling and abusing me. He talked to the doctor for a minute, then walked over to my bedside and acted kind and caring for once. I acted the same way, then excused myself into the restroom. So, those are the events preceding the whole 'one cut too many' thing.

I sat on the cold linoleum floor rocking back and forth waiting for the many voices to stop. But they wouldn't. This time they were yelling about my stupidity and how it got me into this mess. But it wasn't even my fault this time. 'Pappy' dug that screwdriver into my arm because he was bored. He told me so himself. That's what scares me the most: the fact that when he gets too bored, he will do anything, including mutilating his granddaughter even more than what she has done to herself.

The scalpel sat in my hands, and it was starting to look pretty damn friendly. As much as I didn't want to, I found myself cutting deep into my stomach.

It relieved me to see the crimson blood to pour out, but it didn't make the voices stop. So I did it again, and again and finally the voices silenced themselves. Now that I think about it, I think I ran out of blood to support parts of my brain, like the part that controlled my schizophrenia. Oh, well, one less thing for me to worry about.

So, where was I? Oh, yeah. The crimson blood poured out of the five deep cuts in my stomach and I started to moan as I realized, 'Hey, this kinda hurts.' The blood poured out faster as I crumbled into the fetal position and began to cry. 'Oh, god, it hurts!' I yelled out. That was what sent 'Pappy' and the doctors to the door. They pounded on the door and asked if I was ok. I knew I wasn't, and I think they found that out too. The doctor yelled for housekeeping to unlock the door as I continued to bleed all over the floor. Ok, maybe I lied. Locked doors aren't as comforting as I thought. But, c'est la vie. Well, not for anymore. I'm dead, centered in my own blood, blood still pouring out of me. My heart doesn't beat anymore, the voices don't scream anymore, 'Pappy' won't scream anymore. At least, not at me. I wish I had told someone about the abuse, maybe I could've saved my cousins and nieces and nephews.

Housekeeping is too late. The door is opened too late. The doctor walks in and sees the blood and I hear someone say 'oh, my, god.' I don't know what they're complaining about, it's my blood, my life on the cold floor.

Ah, locked doors, they brought me happiness, they brought me pain, they brought me death. I think they fulfilled their duty toward me.