It’s getting so much harder now to block out the images in her head. Red lines and warm skin. Grey cold metal between her fingers. A lasting sting to keep her company while her jeans watch the blood dripping.
She can’t turn them off this time; the switch is broken. Her old scars appear ugly and inviting. She wants to stop the pain. Fill this hole dug into her chest. Isn’t agony such a strange thing? No one really seeks it out, yet it is the first release we turn to when our minds begin to suffer.
But must blood be the only answer left now? Has she really reached that far into her tragic black hole?
‘Ahh but what could one little nick do next to all that time spent without a blade? It couldn’t really be so bad.’
Stop those thoughts my dear. Your companions will only be so much harder on themselves when they see what you’ve done behind the curtain. It’ll only get much, much worse.
Just remember to breathe.