The razor glinted in the afterglow that the light underneath the door was providing. The boys dorm was almost silent, the exception being the snores, groans, and sleepy mumbles heard.
He stared at the razor, turning it over in his hand.
Would anyone notice the mark?
Probably not, especially since the Tournament began.
He slid a finger along the sharp edge, getting a feel for how sharp it was. It was smooth like it had been sanded down with sandpaper and was probably sharp enough to cut through bone. The razor was sleek, a steely black color that glinted and sparkled as the light reflected off of it.
Taking a deep shuddering breath, he pressed it against the skin of his forearm and closed his eyes tightly.
It was there, touching his skin, feeling it, itching to break the skin and feel the blood underneath. It was there, taunting him, mocking him, pushing him to do it already. It was there, in his mind, whispering, The pain will go away . . .
With a lurch, he threw it across the bathroom, listening to it crash to the ground with a klank.
He curled up into himself and cried.
For, like the razor, his thoughts were razor sharp.
Erm, yeah.
Sooooooo, this is sorta based on real things? The thoughts are real, just not the razor part (okay, maybe a paperclip counts...).
But yeeeeeeeah.
Anyway, laters all!