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Masochist(Friday, 29 March 2002- Saturday, 30 March 2002)
Masochism n. 1. the getting of sexual pleasure from being dominated, mistreated or hurt
physically or otherwise by one's partner 2. the getting of pleasure from suffering
physical or psychological pain, inflicted by others or by oneself
The bathroom was vast. To the right of the entrance, about 5 feet away there was the bathroom counter, with 2 sinks, and a row of cabinets below them and a mirror above. The bathtub was to right of the shower, to the right of the entrance, seven feet away. Fifteen feet ahead of me was a door. Inside was the toilet confined to its on separate room with another small sink.
I walked to the counter, my bare feet leaving heat marks on the arctic tile floor. I stood in front of the mirror, leaning forward, my weight resting on the bottom of my palms against the counter. I scanned the counter, seeing the toothbrushes, toothpaste, flosses, soap, deodorants, lotions, brushes and gels. There in the back left corner stood a small aspirin bottle, placed there previously for later experimentation, with the label hidden against the wall as if the state of concealment was striving to be reached. If so, the fine printed, black lettering on the back, gave it away.
My left hand followed my gaze and I reached for the aspirin bottle and tipped it back as if to disable it. It fell over and rolled slightly from side to side. Taking my time, I placed my fingers on its surface and slid it into my hand. I brought it up to view and looked at the back label, my eyes fell across the indications: Fast safe temporary relief of pain and fever. The directions followed: Adults and children 12 years and older, take 1 or 2 tablets with water every 4 hours as needed, up to a maximum of 12 tablets per 24 hours or as directed by doctor.
Pushing my weight off my hands and standing straight up, I twisted the bottle around in my hand and pushed off the pop off top with my thumb. I shook out 1 tablet into my right hand, followed by 5 more. That would be enough for the current trial; I put the small bottle back on the counter. I brought my hand up, took one pill and placed it in my mouth. After it was swallowed, the others followed in a group. A foul taste rapidly spread in my mouth.
I swiftly turned the faucet on and pushed my cupped hands under it. I let them get filled with water, then hurriedly brought my head down and my hands up to my mouth, and hastily drank the water. After a couple of more drinks, I brought the back of my forearm and hand across my mouth, wiping away the water.
I rescanned the counter top; my sight locked onto one of the ceramic toothbrush holders, painted on was a giant starfish. I lifted it up and set it to the side. There lay a shiny, metal razor. I precariously grasped the smooth metal, trapping it into a taunt clasp that sliced open my skin and liberated a crimson liquid from my right hand. It seeped amid the grip, finally seized by its penitentiary bars, my fingers folded beneath it. No cry of pain was generated, for all sense of pain was no longer foreign. I opened my hand, allowing the blood to flow down the sides. I pulled the razor out of the cut.
In my left hand, intravenously, the metal relentlessly carved through skin located on my right forearm. More scarlet fluid flowed freely, draping the torn skin in a downward path as if to observe the previous scars. My rush was being delayed. I wondered if the aspirin took that kind of effect. My anger streamed through my hand, making my arm its victim. I stopped to enjoy what I could. I took the razor in my right hand, which was now half cover in the crimson fluid, to start on the left arm. With curiosity, I steadily brought the razor down my arm; the blood was slower to flow, letting me examine my inner arm. The rush came through overtaking the pain, or maybe it was the aspirin. I cut, until the razor fell out of my hand. It fell to the floor with a clink. I looked down to see it smeared with blood. I knew I would not be able to obtain a grasp and pick it back up.
Wishing I had a backup, I knew I would not be able to use it. I put my palms on the counter again and leaned forward in thought. My arms gave out beneath me. I pushed myself back with what strength I had and avoided slamming my head on the counter. My knees landed on the hard tile and a sharp pain traveled through my legs.
I looked ahead at the counter, the floor and myself; I would have to clean up. There was not much blood on my arms- or at least not as much as last time; I could see some of the skin on my arm. I opened the cabinet in front of me. I reached in and searched around with my hand for the bandages I had wrapped in a towel. My hand came across the soft cloth material and I pulled it out. I rested back on my legs and shook the towel; out came the box of bandages. I wrapped my left arm in the towel and pressed down to let the towel absorb the blood. I unwrapped the towel and did the same to the right. I placed the towel in my lap, and then promptly, took a small cloth bandage and placed it around the cut on my right hand. I used the bandage tape that came in the box and sealed the end of the bandage. I took a larger bandage and wrapped it around my right forearm, then sealed the end. I picked up the towel and rewrapped it around my left arm, which had started bleeding again.
After I removed the towel, and put it back in my lap, I took another bandage and wrapped my left arm, then sealed it with the tape. I picked up the razor and placed in on the counter above me. I took the bloody towel and with a clean part wiped the floor where the razor fell. I steadily stood up, trying not to use my arms too much, placing the towel on the counter. I slid the razor into the sink and turn on the water. I splashed some water on the razor, and then I picked up it up and situated in it its original spot. I reset the toothbrush holder over it. Using a clean part of the towel, I then wiped what blood remained on the counter. I turned to my left and walked toward the door that led to the toilet. To the right of it was the dirty clothes and towel hamper. I dropped the towel in and grabbed a new one from the shelf above it. I walked back to the bandages on the floor.
Kneeling down, I laid the towel out on the floor and positioned the bandages on it, then wrapped the towel around them. I placed the towels back in and closed the bathroom cabinet door. I stood back up and walked towards the exit. As I was about to turn the lights out I bumped into Bobby.
"Sorry," I mumbled somewhat weary from loss of blood.
"Hi," he addressed jadedly. He sounded as if he had just woken up. I did not look up, but nodded.
"What are you doing up so early?" he asked as I started to leave.
"I couldn't sleep," I stated revealing half of the truth.
"Me either, what's with the bandages?" he inquired.
I did not answer right away.
"…P.E.," I questioned more than answered. "Soccer."
"Oh," he replied awkwardly.
"I didn't wear my gloves," I whispered now lying to his face. He nodded and stared at me blankly.
"I have to use the restroom," he announced. Was he implying that I was in his way?
"I want to go to my room," I proclaimed in response, now looking him in the eye. He stood still for a moment, grinned and stepped to the side. I grinned back and walked out the bathroom. He walked in. I turned around to look at the counter; he would not be able to tell what had gone on. I turned back around and walked down the hall; the bathroom was on the right of the hall. I felt my way towards the third door on the right, opened the door and went in. I couldn't see anything but I knew where my bed was. I closed the door, and got in bed. I knew I'd be sleeping in late today.
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Rogue's POV