May 21st

It’s odd, really, how fire can feel cold after years of Burning.

                I guess I was feeling reflective that night, as I brushed the stove-heated pin along my forearm. A practiced hand prevented scars from truly showing, though my fingertips couldn’t hide the calluses. Nobody would’ve guessed I was a Burner. I hid it well, and it was never on those stupid videos they showed you in ninth grade health class. In fact, I’d never heard anyone but me saying it. I’d heard of cutters, like anybody else, and that seemed to be the only type of self-harm anyone ever cared about.

                That suited me just fine. Go treat the ones with paper-cuts, give them the pills and the attention they begged for. I didn’t need that. I just needed the fiery cool sensation to wash over me, maybe just one more time.

                I liked it, I guess you could say. I liked the smell of flesh as it cooked, rare though it may be. Even the way it sizzled gave me chills. Naturally I had to hide it underneath my clothing. There’d be no way to pass the marks off as sunburn or some accident for very long. Oh well. Even in summer, a loose, light, long sleeved shirt would work just fine. People just got used to seeing me like that, I guess.

                Anyway, that’s the start of my story. Our group therapist suggested we all keep journals, here on The Ward – aka, the fourth floor of Mahogany State Hospital. Fourth floor, I chuckled. Just low enough that you’d survive a jump, but high enough to make sure you wouldn’t be running anywhere afterward. I decided to start on that night, the night before I was sent to rehab, perhaps so I could show you how I ended up here. You’ll be hearing a lot from me in the near future, I expect.

Well, Miss Peacock reminded us to write again tonight. It’s been a week since I last wrote. I won’t bore you with the details. Only went into solitary once, only Burned four or five more times than that. Her name isn’t actually Peacock; of course, I just enjoyed mocking her frilly, stupid outfit she wore every time she came to therapy.  I wanted to ask her if she owned more than one outfit, or if she had a bad case of whatever John had – The one who stacked everything in his room, repeatedly.