There is a quick clean slice of the pocket knife, followed by sharp stinging.
Small rivers of crimson liquid run down my wrist. I am so stupid, for lack of better word. I don't even like him anymore. He'd flown away forever. But he.'d left me with a feeling I couldn't let go of. You see, when Mello was with me at Whammy's house he had always hurt me while he kissed me. He abused me when he showed me he loved me. So I learned to enjoy the feeling of pain. I don't hate Mello. I don't have feelings for him though. Or maybe I've just numbed them with mental anesthesia. Somehow that seems worse because I once loved him.
I cut another slash in my wrist, wincing and smirking slightly as thought what my angle of chaos would think if he saw me now. My arms are covered in scars, overlapping, both faded and fresh cut.
Thirteen is officially my least favorite number. First because of the phsyco who tried to humiliate L by creating a case he couldn't solve, and because L is my mentor I don't like people like that. Secondly M is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. M left me.
Oh, M.
I don't love you. You don't love me. We were never meant to be.
All you left me and my eternity if solitude with was this self destructive habit of cutting myself.
I should probably wash my arm off now. I walk over to the sink and run cool water over my arm, then tape some gauze on. I put my shirt back on, which I had taken off to avoid staining.
Blood doesn't wash out of white cotton very easily.
