Day 38 of 100

About twenty years ago, I caught a glimpse of the burn scar on my wrist.

I guess it wasn’t just the past four years that I have been thinking of death, but about as long as I could remember.

At the age of about ten, I would turn the electric burners on the stove on until they blazed a beautiful red, only to turn them off until they were a dead black.

Off and on. On and off. Sometimes, it was hours until my mom would come into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

As soon as she left, I turned the burner back on. “It won’t hurt,” I told myself.

Red hot. Dead black.

You could smell the heat the burners gave off. It was inviting, almost drawing me in. “Even if it does hurt, at least it will be something else to think about.” I reasoned.

Red hot. Dead black.

I ran my hand over the burner while it was red hot. I could feel the heat warm my hand. I held my hand in place until tears came to my eyes. As I drew my hand back, I turned off the burner watching it darken. As soon as it had gone completely black, I quickly slammed my hand down. The searing sound hit my ears like a ton of bricks. The smell shot into my nose replacing every smell I had known with the putrid smell of burning skin. I kept my scream muffled; I didn’t want my parents to know what I did. But, now they did.

And as they rushed into the kitchen, I smiled.