Fragments of excellence: Existence of pain

This is a new segment, I like to call this: Fragments of Excellence. In this segment I share fragments of some of my scenario-work. In the past I have written a lot of screenplays, scenarios and scripts, but I never shared them with anyone. So I am going to share them with you guys in this segment. For my first post on that segment, I introduce to you: Existence of pain. This is a pretty intense, emotional scenario. It is about a guy who is addicted to self-hurting, he has a pretty sad emotional past, so he develops a method to express himself, so he hurts himself.

Existence of pain: The self-reflect scene.

A dark dark bathroom, with a sink on the right, the toilet on the left. A purple bathroom rug in the middle. The moonlight is shining through the window and hits the mirror. A few drops of blood are falling into the sink, tiny drops are making a puddle of red messiness. Like an ocean of blood, the sink is red like someone spilled red paint into it. There is no pain, only blood.

I stare to myself in the mirror, tears are flowing from my eye, falling into the red puddles of blood Why am I doing this? Why can't I stop? There is always a reason to stop and there is always a chance to stop, but I just can't stop. Is it because I love the feel of the knife into my body, or the needles that are piercing my skin? This is far more intense than that. As I look at my hand covered with blood, I realize that I don't feel pain. A normal person feels pain. Maybe I am not normal, maybe I am out of this world. The blood is sliding down to my elbow, making lines of blood on my arm. The palm of my hand is completely covered with blood, I rub it on my face and I look in the mirror. Who are you? Why are you doing this? Are you still the same Jonathan, or are you a demon that took control. Every time I feel hurt or my heart is crushed, I have the urge I hurt myself. When the blade is cutting in my body, I feel saved. The blade is my savior, everybody that is hurting me are the demons. The blade helps me forget, the blood isn't covering my body, no it's covering my pain.

A knocking at the door, is it mine? No, it's the neighbors. I don't want to see my friends looking at me like this. They wouldn't understand, they come from this perfect life, with no sorrow. It's not that I hate them, but they wouldn't understand my pain. Well, not the pain with cutting myself. The emotional pain throughout my entire life.

As I sit on the ground and look at the ceiling, the blood is drying up. And the pain is getting lesser, it is gone? No, this pain wasn't even a fragment of the entire crap in my life. I want to scream but that doesn't work for me, so the cutting helps. All my life I wanted to be someone else, but I still struggle. This life is hard, harder than a bricks. I know what they say: “ it only makes you stronger”. But it's not working on me, I only hurt myself more and more...