A sharp, silver blade – stolen from a pencil sharpener – moved swiftly across pale skin. Blood blossomed from the wound and she told herself that it was fine. That she was fine. That she wasn't ill.
It was what she always told herself; that she wasn't a cutter. It's not like she did it often, after all, just when it all became too much. No, it wasn't when it all became too much, she corrected herself, it was when she needed to. Her cutting was much more innocent than that. It wasn't an expression of pain, and inner turmoil, he was still doing it for the same reasons as when she started.
Back when Ginger was depressed was when it had started, naturally. An experimental slash against her wrist with the blade of her good razor. A smirk – slightly deranged, yet empty – crossed her lips as she remembered her response. A simple 'Ow!' and silently swearing that she'd never do it again. She remembered the blood flowing down her arm faster than she had expected, and feeling a little dizzy. All the more reason not to do it again.
Of course, she did do it again. It wasn't long after, really. Everyone had pointed out the cut, whispering when they thought that she couldn't hear them, teachers offered her extra attention, and mama had even cancelled a trip (good thing, too, since the plane she was to travel in had crashed; no survivors) to spend more time with her. A second cut in addition to the first was sure to get her even more attention.
If she was doing it for attention, though, why did she take so much care to hide it these days? Why did she force a smile and cut her leg? She couldn't answer, and honestly wouldn't dwell on the thought long enough to consider it an issue. She wasn't ill and that was that. This was for attention, the looks, the whispers, the concern. That was what she needed after all, not pain.
Even she knew, when she though for a while, that her cutting had nothing to do with attention any more. What would a star actress need extra attention for, anyway? In a bizarre way, she knew that she was only doing this because she got whatever she wanted. She got the attention she craved, she got the friends she wanted, she got the money that her father had foolishly lost, she got to be the big sister that her brother aspired (in ways) to be... is she got all of this then what was the point, when the need arose, to deny herself the pleasure of cutting?
It wasn't like cutting was even that bad, after all. Who was she hurting? Herself? No, not at all. She didn't hurt unless her reputation did, after all. Or Ginger; if Ginger hurt then she did as well. Ginger was a good reason to stop though, she pondered. She almost felt as though the girl would be mad if she found out that she – Courtney – was looking at her own red blood instead of the curly mop of hair in the picture on her wardrobe. A small smile found it's way on to her mouth.
Right now, she could picture Ginger - her face as red as her hair – angrily telling her off for this. She could picture the red-head then taking her hand, telling her how much she loved her and kissing her softly on the cheek. She could picture the other girl telling her that when she – Courtney – did this, it hurt her – Ginger – as well. It was in that moment Courtney considered throwing the blade out. Of course, that thought came crashing down around her when she remembered one very important thing; nothing could hurt Ginger.
How could anything hurt a dead girl? It couldn't. A bitterness rose up in the back of her throat and she felt that she just had to throw up. So she did. A finger down the throat, though gross, was effective. She dearly hoped that no one outside had heard her. She dropped the blade into her purse before seating herself on the – now vomit filled – toilet. It was then that she realised her face was wet. How long had she been crying?
She sat herself up in a heartbeat, realising that no matter how sad she was she had a role to play. Besides, Ginger wouldn't want her sitting around here feeling sorry for herself. She look in the mirror, quickly realising that she looked a fright. With speed that only a Gripling could meet, she fixed her makeup. She glanced down at her dress straight afterwards, visibly cringing at the red reflecting off the silver sequins on her dress. She wet a piece of toilet paper and dabbed at it, removing the blood almost entirely. With any luck, no one would notice. She threw the toilet paper into the toilet and flushed before washing her hands.
Soon she was opening the door, reporters at her almost straight away. One particular question – the only one that anyone was interested in – made her want to break down and cry. It made her feel like she should still be in that bathroom, where they couldn't see her and the disguise didn't matter. "How do you feel about the death of Ginger Foutley?". She didn't know how they could be so heartless, asking the question without a drop of emotion. None of these people would stand there and hold her if she started to cry, and anyone who knew her knew that she would.
Though crying wasn't something that she should do in public, she was. She was on the ground, tears streaming down her face, paying no attention to the world. Photographers were taking pictures, heartlessly wondering how much a picture of the Courtney Gripling crying would be worth. But that was fine, right? She was getting exactly what she wanted now, after all. The reason why she cut was for attention, right? Then why didn't she care about flashing cameras or the people trying to help her up?