You open the draw in the kitchen, by the kettle and take out the big scissors. The ones that are always razor sharp, which is perfect for you. You lift them slightly, enough to not scrape against the other things in the draw but not high enough to hit the top of it. They hover in the void, held by the thumb and forefinger of your right hand. You feel powerful- at your making, they could clatter and possibly wake someone up, or they could be taken out silently and used for what you have planned. This must be what God feels like, you think, but he doesn't exist. You know this.
You creep back through the kitchen, using the whole of your foot rather than just the balls of your feet. The science lesson about pressure reforms in your mind- the bigger the surface area, the less pressure. Less pressure equals less creeks of the floorboards. Less creeks of the floorboards equals less chance of somebody waking up and catching you. You make it along the hallway, missing the chair by millimetres, and step onto the outside edge of the first step. A slight puff of noise at the increase in pressure, but nothing more. You don't hold the banister- the wood creeks. Instead, you place your palm flat on one of the steps further up. You miss the second step, it creeks horrendously, and stretch your leg up to the third one. You carry on this way until you reach the top. You've lived in this house for most of your life- you've negotiated these stairs for many years, and could walk up and down them in the pitch dark soundlessly. Which is exactly what you do now.
You shut the door of your bedroom, with only the slightest of bangs as the door hits the frame. You ease the handle up, and avoid the piles of clothes on the floor. You know exactly where everything is, despite what your mother says. You could find anything in a matter of seconds- organised chaos. You tap the lamp on your bedside table, and it illuminates the room. You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly, so the wooden frame doesn't crack. You pull the scissors apart, they make that delightful scraping sound, the metal-on-metal ringing that signifies the start of something special. A rush of hormones; the thrill of doing something forbidden without anybody knowing. You hold them like you would to score a piece of ribbon to decorate a present, the curls springing up. Curls of ribbon always spring back. You wish you had that ability.
You bring them down to your hip. Nobody sees your hip, not this part anyway, its covered by your underwear, away from prying eyes that might happen to catch you. Not that anyone would care anyway. This gives you a different type of thrill, because you know that it's there and nobody else does. A secret.
The first drag of the metal across your skin feels like heaven. Your eyes are closed, savouring the feeling, like a heroin addict. You breathe, filling your lungs to the max. Deeply, slowly, in and then out, only once. Then your eyes ease open and your head drops, and you watch the hope leaving your body, run in droplets across your hip until its almost at the sheets, and you catch it with a tissue just in the nick of time. It becomes damasked, hope and white, white and hope. You allow yourself one more, one more rush and then you'll stop. But one more becomes four more, until there is a ladder of rungs across your hip. Only six, but there deep. They begin to scab, and you force yourself to put the scissors in the gap between the wooden frame of the bed and the mattress. You watch as the rungs become darker, feeding the need inside of you. You place the tissues under your pillow. The hope has solidified by now and won't mark the sheets. They will stay there until you can flush the evidence down the toilet.
You lie in bed, your hand resting unconsciously on the rungs. Nobody understands why you do it. When you were younger it was picking off scabs, repeatedly so they'd scar. Now that you're older, you've learnt to hide them where nobody will find them. It gives you the freedom of choice, so you can do it when you need to, not when you can. Everybody thinks that you've stopped. They all think it's that easy. But you have to have a reason for the pain inside of you, a physical reason to be hurting rather than the ache deep inside your chest, the feeling of self loathing. This gives you a reason to be hurting. It makes it just about bearable.
Nobody understands this. Apart from one girl, years and years ago, once upon a time. She was blonde, and would have been stunningly pretty if it wasn't for the deadness in her eyes. You had healing hope marks over your arms, and so did she. Nobody asks- its perfectly normal for children to be covered in scabs. She locked eyes on you in the post office queue, two lost souls. Lost souls always recognise each other. She came and held your hand.
Jack trails kisses down your stomach to the line of hair covering your most private parts, across to your hips. He trails butterfly kisses over the marks, as light as summer rain. They've faded to white over the years, and you can't look at them without seeing the damasked of the tissue. He brings himself up to your face, leaving what he was doing.
"If you're ever ready to share why you did these, then I'm here, okay?" Jack whispers, looking into your eyes. Ianto stares, and for the first time realises that the deadened look that occasionally makes an appearance in his eyes has nothing to do with living a thousand lifetimes. You hold his hand, and hold him tight with the other. Lost souls always recognise each other, but sometimes it takes longer than others to make the connection.