A/N: Just a little drabble. *Trigger Warning* Self Harm Specifically cutting.
Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling i just like to play with her characters. I own noting.
Minerva sat on the edge of her bathroom sink. The brand new razor blade held in her right hand awaited the christening of blood that first slide would bring. She couldn't quite recall how old she had been when she first used a blade on her shoulder, but cutting had been her oldest friend. It was always there for her. The first time had been a constant battle.
She had never looked at a razor that way, but once she had seen it, she couldn't get it out of her mind. It had plagued her thoughts day and night, and somehow she just knew it would save her from the crushing pain of her young life. Months of this battle of wills between her self-control and the possible release the razor offered raged before one day, she stopped fighting and dragged the cold metal across her porcelain skin. She had felt almost instant relief and the weight seemed to lift off of her shoulders. She could breathe again; she could smile again, but it didn't last. Life slowly crept back and when she could hardly breathe, the razor was there to help her.
It was easy after the first time. Just a few cuts later and she would feel whole again. Several times throughout her life, she had tried to stop; her rational mind knowing it was not a good thing. But every time the whisper of temptation and the sweet promise of release would lure her back in. And moments after the new cut marred her the guilt would hit her like a herd of centaur, because she had promised herself she would stop, that the last time had been the last time, and the same promise would slip through her lips, her determination to stop solid... but the razor knew it was only a matter of time before it was once again creeping into her mind, her thoughts… calling to her so sweetly.
After years of fighting it, she had surrendered to the struggle and embraced the comfort her razor offered. She had learned over the years that it was not a socially accepted friendship and therefore had learned to hide the evidence. Long sleeved teaching robes were a must. Most of her cuts left no scar if healed with magic, but a few, ones that were deep enough to need stitching, left scars. No one knew of her form of release. Lovers over the years would never remember the scars on her body and her friends had never said anything although she had suspected a few had some suspicions of their own.
Now, almost seventy years old, it was still her beloved companion. She watched in the mirror as the stripe of red grew and instantly she felt better. Some days she wished she didn't need it to survive, but it was better than giving up all together... wasn't it? It didn't really matter. She would do what she had to do make it through life. Her razor gave her freedom. Freedom from this unseen pressure, freedom from anxiety; it was one of the few things she could control. She winced when a sharp sting tickled her skin as she dragged the blade across it again.
When she was done, she cleaned and dressed her new soon to be scars and dressed for bed. As she lay there in the dark, she traced the ridges on her shoulders. Each one held a story, a memory. She fell asleep gently stroking her scars because they were somehow her comfort and that's all she had ever really needed – comfort.
A/N: Hey guys lemme know what you think. For those the suffer a cutting/self harm addiction just know that you matter and that you are beautiful and wonderful. Loves to all.