Guys! You have no idea how sorry I am for not updating my fics lately ): There's no excuse. I've just been going through some rough times. Accept my apology? I wrote you guys this... :D? Just a little thing I put together today that I'm actually quite proud of. Reviews make me happy ^^ Soo yeah.
Rated: T
Length: 900+ words or so
Summary: Santana's going through a rough time... She takes the easy way out. Triggery, cutting and hints of character death "The way you winced in pain, inhaling sharply as the blade cut through virgin skin. Now you're used to it. You probably shouldn't be."
Santana marvels in the silence of the empty house. 'This is the perfect time.' You think. You walk slowly into the bathroom, turning the light on as you do so. You squint at the bright light your eyes are no longer used to, reaching blindly for the drawer you were targeting. You open your eyes slowly as they become used to the light again, opening the drawer slowly, making an eerie creaking noise as you do so. You look around, tearing your gaze from the open drawer, the objects of your search displayed in front of you, shining in the light. You look at the door, making scenarios in your head.
What if someone walked in? What if it was someone with a knife, someone who broke in to the house, bloodthirsty as you are at this moment. Then you think... You wouldn't really mind that. Anything that can rid you of the pain you're feeling right now is acceptable.
What if the lights gave in, throwing bright yellow and orange sparks everywhere, setting fire to the house with you in it? Yeah right, as if that would happen.
...What if you took the upcoming act too far? You know what it's like. The pain is addicting. Once you start, God knows where you'll stop. When you're bleeding, it's like everything bad is seeping out of your life in the form of a warm crimson pool on your skin. You reach out for the blade blindly, getting a small nick on the skin of your hand as you grasp it with unnecessary force. You spin it around in your fingers, watching as the light dances off it in an morbidly beautiful way, a way you've grown to appreciate over time. It's all ritual by now. This is your only way of escape. The only way you can escape the cruel, unjust world you live in, even if it is only for a small matter of time. You press the blade to your skin, shivering as the sharp, cold metal makes contact with your warm, sun kissed skin. You swipe it once, twice, three times across clear skin on your arm, taking a disgusting pleasure at how easily it glides through your flesh. You smile, thinking back to the first time you did this. The way you winced in pain, inhaling sharply as the blade cut through virgin skin. Now you're used to it. You probably shouldn't be. It's all kinds of wrong, but it feels so right, you can't stop now. You twist your wrist to aim the previously clean, now bloodstained and morally contaminated blade in different directions, watching how it elegantly flew through your skin, leaving behind trails of warm, red liquid. You go deeper, deeper than you've ever cut before, to the point where you know it'll leave a very clear scar, the same name, the same eight letters that left that scar on your heart, one that'll never be erased and that will never stop haunting you, no matter how hard you try to forget. It hurts. Granted, it hurts. But it's more pleasure than anything you've ever done to yourself before. You started. You'll never go back.
You're hooked.
You twist and turn, watching the engravings on your arm disappear amongst the blood that seeped through them, like cracks, opening the gates of hell with a disgusting pleasure.
"This one's for all of the pain you caused me."
You take another swipe at your arm.
"This one's for the fact you couldn't have done anything about it. You couldn't help what happened."
Swipe.
"Neither could I."
Another swipe.
"This one's for the fact," Your voice cracks. "This one's for the fact it wasn't your fault."
Swipe.
"It was all me. I deserve this. It was all my fault!"
Swipe.
"IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF ME!" You yell, the words echoing throughout the house, accompanied with another swipe at your skin, deeper than the others.
"I should have been there... I told you not to go on your own. I TOLD you!"
Swipe.
"I should have been there... I should have. It's ALL MY FAULT!" You scream frustratedly.
Swipe.
"I'm so sorry..."
You point your arms down slightly, so that the new cuts, the ones covering the old ones are facing the bottom of the sink. You watch as the blood poured down, staining the pristine white sink a bloody red, a colour that had definitely replaced the previous one as your favourite. You run your fingers through your silky black mane, returning to the task at hand. You add the last few details, the last few letters that spell out 'That' name. Once you're done, you trace your fingers along the bloody crevices on your forearm, memorising every letter, every detail, every line of your new design. You step back with an eerie smile on your face, one so enchanting that you could hardly notice the transparent streams of tears trickling down your face, the tears you cry for 'her'. You bring your fingers to your lip, savouring the metallic taste of blood, your own. It's a taste you'll always associate with these dark times. That is, if you get past them. You hold out your arm in front of you, admiring your work. You read the letters now engraved forever in your body out loud. Your lip trembles as you read it and you collapse into a weeping ball on the floor.
"Brittany."