Oh So Cold
The blade. It's small, compact even. The blade is crimson, tainted with my blood. The cold metal is almost soothing. The sides seem to gleam, like the stars in the night sky. The blade, the sharp blade can draw blood with but a simple touch upon the skin of an innocent.
My eyes have dulled over the years, from that once pretty baby blue to a lighter shade of almost lilac. The slowly purpling color of my eyes seems to overtake what's left of the darkened-cerulean around the darkness of the pupil. My hair is still in the same style that it was in all those years ago, still in the two meatballs that caused the traumatic teasing all through my high school years, the blond is long-gone, though, in its place is a dark chestnut, the only remnants of the blond are the few wispy streaks strewn around through the clutter of brown.
Maybe it's time for a change. Maybe I should just let go of the past, let bygones be bygones, but no. Instead I will hold on to the memories so far away from now, hold on to the pain they brought and reminisce about t he happiness that existed in that time. But I suppose it isnt that time anymore and I shouldn't think about it too much. Only when the memories come, but no, I should not remember, I should leave the effects of time to the guardian of the gate, not the albums with pictures of teens laughing about in times of great sadness. No. Never that.
The blade: so comforting, always around in times of depression and great need.
My hair seems to rustle, as I stand on shaky legs reaching for the scissors that lay on the dark mahogany wood of my vanity desk.
I hum a little tune as I reach for the silver metal of the scissors.
I take my now-dark hair from the odango's that it's been in almost since the beginning of time, so to speak.
I grab the scissors ruthlessly and chop my hair starting from the bottom. *snip, snip* is heard until my hair is cut evenly to reach to the middle of my back.
I hurl the scissors to the other side of the midnight room.
I grab at the blade, positioning it right above the purple veins of the inside of my left wrist, the positioning is almost too perfect but there is no such thing as too perfect, just imperfection exists in this world.
I lightly trace the dulled paths painted upon delicate porcelain by God himself. A sigh seems to escape my lips the instant that the blade hit my skin. The release is good, almost orgasmic but the need to cut deeper immediately hits me as the crimson regret comes out slowly.
The feel of the blade nipping at the delicate veins isnt good enough. The need for another release washes over me as the blood slowly comes to an end. No. I mustn't, but who will know if I go on this roller-coaster ride of emotions for one last time before the grand closing?
I position the blade over the taut skin of my inner left wrist. This wrist is untouched by the cool metal of the blade; the veins are still fresh as the day as I was born. The veins start to throb, as if calling, beckoning me to slash across bluish-greenish-blood taking layers.
My hand shakes as I gently place the gleaming piece of metal into my left hand. A mess is in no doubt to be made, as I was never good at doing much of anything with my left hand. No. I was born a right-handed child.
My fist compresses around the silver blade as it cuts into my palm. Ahh, the feeling of sweet release.
The gentle flow of blood leaves me feeling light-headed but I couldn't really care any less not even if I tried.
I gently take the smooth blade in-between my fingers and hold it to my right arm, directly above the veins. I softly lower the tip and slowly the rest of the slick blade comes down onto the surface of my skin. I push the blade further into the pale flesh that just covers the pathway to my destination.
The blade cuts through the skin and traces across the aquamarine veins beneath the skin's surface.
I trace the veins agonizingly slowly. It seems to make the pain worthwhile. At least it does its job right. It dulls the ache. It gives a sense or release, yet each time to get the same release you felt the time before you must cut deeper and one day you'll destroy yourself but to me that doesn't matter. As long as there is the heavenly feel of release all will be all right.
The blood gently flows from the edge of my arm to the black of my pants. The color seems to almost unify with the black, but no, it stains the pants with the crimson regret, no matter how hard you try, it will not merge into one, it will stay separate for the rest of eternity.
I have gone numb; I cannot feel even as the blade traces my veins as the feeling halts the usual feeling of sweet release.
This time the blade has not dulled the ache. No, not that. For it has not appropriately served its purpose, the only thing it has done is make me emotionless. Cold. Conflicting feelings all based on the same thing. The cold feeling is on the inside. All in my head. Not on the flesh of this person who became numb so very long ago. No. Not me. The feeling is never there on my porcelain skin.
In the last seven years my hands haven't been soiled with the blood of another person, let alone been tainted by my own blood. No. I have learnt the tricks. My hands are clean. Unsoiled. Pure. As pure as a murderer such as myself can have.
The mask that I had worn for several years fractured all that time ago. The façade was over for me, but no, I replaced that mask and that was all they could see.
I am not what everybody thought I was back then, I was never that shrew that was ditzy and always failing tests. No. I was smarter than all of them combined but they couldn't see beyond the fake laughter cheeriness that was usually plastered on.
Behind that genki façade I was more than anyone could ever think I was. I'm deep, on days where the girls were off from school because of illness I would sit alone in a corner and do my work, I was far ahead. The others were barely through their first page of work and I was going onto my eighth. When they'd return to school the next day they would die of laughter, thinking Umino and Naru had done it for me.
No. They never saw behind 'ditzy blond' exterior I put up. No one ever did. If they did that would have meant that they actually had to care, but no, they didn't possess the hearts needed to care for anyone but themselves.
If only they had looked even a bit deeper they would have seen the real me, but no, they were too selfish to see that their 'friend' was on the verge of a major breakdown. Too selfish to do anything besides stand by as their so-called friend was taking a path to self-destruction. But no. They didn't want to do anything so I just sat and tried to look pretty, never really paying attention to anything. I was just like a robot I did the things I was meant to do and I did them at the right time. At meetings I would nod or shake my head or I would transform in sync with the others, I would just sit there, listening half-heartedly, not bothering to join in. at school, I wrote questions and answers, I sat and was unusually quiet at times. Other times I threw fits for no perceptible reason.
To them I was nothing more than a problem.
I remember how it started. I was lonely; Mamoru and I had broken up after almost five years of lies and deception. It's laughable really. I can't help but feel bitter. I had no boyfriend whilst the others were all taken, Minako and Evan, Rei and Chad, Makoto and Ken and even Ami-Chan had Greg. Then I drew away from 'girl-time' in which they chose to talk about their love lives and how well their relationships were going.
No one ever knew the real me. To my parents I was an undeviating mistake, a spoilt brat who wanted nothing more than to get her way. To my friends I was just a hopeless blotch on their unblemished records. Just somebody in their way of achieving the ultimate perfection. To my brother I was a pesky older sister who did nothing more than fall over and cry.
After retreating from the little 'girl-time' we had left apart from when they talked about their boyfriends I drew away. At first I was late to meetings, I was never able to go out with them anymore then I missed the meetings, more and more each week. Eventually, I stopped going altogether. They did not notice or even call.
My plan worked. After that they didn't even recognize my existence, our friendship was severed.
Now if you ask the last remaining person who ever knew me about me they would tell you I was the most stupid and selfish person that ever lived. They'll tell you that I walked away from my destiny that hot summer's day.
The day that forever changed my life.
The day that I, Usagi Tsukino died.
The day I went cold. Now all I am is a shell of what was there before that day. Before the day that changed the timelines all over the world. The day I walked away from my destiny.
Now I don't feel anything anymore. My whole body is numb I cant feel the sharp knife as it dances across my veins. Not even when I cut deeper.
So now I shall force myself to feel.
I will touch the veins with the cool metal and I will cut them.
Maybe I will hear the sound of an elastic band snapping, or maybe I will hear the sound of nothingness, the sound of nobody caring.
I might feel a sharp sting or maybe the worst pain that I've ever experience in this 'life' as they call it. I doubt that though. Because I am only a moving body. I have become cold. Completely numb.
I will probably feel nothing, as I will let the vein snap and seal my fate.
The blood is the only thing that is really keeping me alive, if I was completely drained of blood, I would be dead.
But the blood is warm; it forgives where nobody and nothing else will ever forgive.
So now I am lifting my left hand. Over the opened-up wrist. And there it is. I can have death now. I will have death. So now I clench my fist and hold it like that for a few seconds and I let go. The blood rushes back and that's the last time I'll ever have to feel the blood run again.
One of my veins almost seems to pop out.
This is it. My last chance.
I push the knife downwards and tear the little vein.
I may be numb but I'm going dizzy as I let a bitter chuckle escape my lips for what must be the last time ever.
The knife just went deeper it's still in my inner-wrist.
I may be numb but I can feel the pain of dying.
"See you in heaven and goodbye." Were the last words whispered as Usagi Tsukino died.
The blade. It's small, compact even. The blade is crimson, tainted with my blood. The cold metal is almost soothing. The sides seem to gleam, like the stars in the night sky. The blade, the sharp blade can draw blood with but a simple touch upon the skin of an innocent.
My eyes have dulled over the years, from that once pretty baby blue to a lighter shade of almost lilac. The slowly purpling color of my eyes seems to overtake what's left of the darkened-cerulean around the darkness of the pupil. My hair is still in the same style that it was in all those years ago, still in the two meatballs that caused the traumatic teasing all through my high school years, the blond is long-gone, though, in its place is a dark chestnut, the only remnants of the blond are the few wispy streaks strewn around through the clutter of brown.
Maybe it's time for a change. Maybe I should just let go of the past, let bygones be bygones, but no. Instead I will hold on to the memories so far away from now, hold on to the pain they brought and reminisce about t he happiness that existed in that time. But I suppose it isnt that time anymore and I shouldn't think about it too much. Only when the memories come, but no, I should not remember, I should leave the effects of time to the guardian of the gate, not the albums with pictures of teens laughing about in times of great sadness. No. Never that.
The blade: so comforting, always around in times of depression and great need.
My hair seems to rustle, as I stand on shaky legs reaching for the scissors that lay on the dark mahogany wood of my vanity desk.
I hum a little tune as I reach for the silver metal of the scissors.
I take my now-dark hair from the odango's that it's been in almost since the beginning of time, so to speak.
I grab the scissors ruthlessly and chop my hair starting from the bottom. *snip, snip* is heard until my hair is cut evenly to reach to the middle of my back.
I hurl the scissors to the other side of the midnight room.
I grab at the blade, positioning it right above the purple veins of the inside of my left wrist, the positioning is almost too perfect but there is no such thing as too perfect, just imperfection exists in this world.
I lightly trace the dulled paths painted upon delicate porcelain by God himself. A sigh seems to escape my lips the instant that the blade hit my skin. The release is good, almost orgasmic but the need to cut deeper immediately hits me as the crimson regret comes out slowly.
The feel of the blade nipping at the delicate veins isnt good enough. The need for another release washes over me as the blood slowly comes to an end. No. I mustn't, but who will know if I go on this roller-coaster ride of emotions for one last time before the grand closing?
I position the blade over the taut skin of my inner left wrist. This wrist is untouched by the cool metal of the blade; the veins are still fresh as the day as I was born. The veins start to throb, as if calling, beckoning me to slash across bluish-greenish-blood taking layers.
My hand shakes as I gently place the gleaming piece of metal into my left hand. A mess is in no doubt to be made, as I was never good at doing much of anything with my left hand. No. I was born a right-handed child.
My fist compresses around the silver blade as it cuts into my palm. Ahh, the feeling of sweet release.
The gentle flow of blood leaves me feeling light-headed but I couldn't really care any less not even if I tried.
I gently take the smooth blade in-between my fingers and hold it to my right arm, directly above the veins. I softly lower the tip and slowly the rest of the slick blade comes down onto the surface of my skin. I push the blade further into the pale flesh that just covers the pathway to my destination.
The blade cuts through the skin and traces across the aquamarine veins beneath the skin's surface.
I trace the veins agonizingly slowly. It seems to make the pain worthwhile. At least it does its job right. It dulls the ache. It gives a sense or release, yet each time to get the same release you felt the time before you must cut deeper and one day you'll destroy yourself but to me that doesn't matter. As long as there is the heavenly feel of release all will be all right.
The blood gently flows from the edge of my arm to the black of my pants. The color seems to almost unify with the black, but no, it stains the pants with the crimson regret, no matter how hard you try, it will not merge into one, it will stay separate for the rest of eternity.
I have gone numb; I cannot feel even as the blade traces my veins as the feeling halts the usual feeling of sweet release.
This time the blade has not dulled the ache. No, not that. For it has not appropriately served its purpose, the only thing it has done is make me emotionless. Cold. Conflicting feelings all based on the same thing. The cold feeling is on the inside. All in my head. Not on the flesh of this person who became numb so very long ago. No. Not me. The feeling is never there on my porcelain skin.
In the last seven years my hands haven't been soiled with the blood of another person, let alone been tainted by my own blood. No. I have learnt the tricks. My hands are clean. Unsoiled. Pure. As pure as a murderer such as myself can have.
The mask that I had worn for several years fractured all that time ago. The façade was over for me, but no, I replaced that mask and that was all they could see.
I am not what everybody thought I was back then, I was never that shrew that was ditzy and always failing tests. No. I was smarter than all of them combined but they couldn't see beyond the fake laughter cheeriness that was usually plastered on.
Behind that genki façade I was more than anyone could ever think I was. I'm deep, on days where the girls were off from school because of illness I would sit alone in a corner and do my work, I was far ahead. The others were barely through their first page of work and I was going onto my eighth. When they'd return to school the next day they would die of laughter, thinking Umino and Naru had done it for me.
No. They never saw behind 'ditzy blond' exterior I put up. No one ever did. If they did that would have meant that they actually had to care, but no, they didn't possess the hearts needed to care for anyone but themselves.
If only they had looked even a bit deeper they would have seen the real me, but no, they were too selfish to see that their 'friend' was on the verge of a major breakdown. Too selfish to do anything besides stand by as their so-called friend was taking a path to self-destruction. But no. They didn't want to do anything so I just sat and tried to look pretty, never really paying attention to anything. I was just like a robot I did the things I was meant to do and I did them at the right time. At meetings I would nod or shake my head or I would transform in sync with the others, I would just sit there, listening half-heartedly, not bothering to join in. at school, I wrote questions and answers, I sat and was unusually quiet at times. Other times I threw fits for no perceptible reason.
To them I was nothing more than a problem.
I remember how it started. I was lonely; Mamoru and I had broken up after almost five years of lies and deception. It's laughable really. I can't help but feel bitter. I had no boyfriend whilst the others were all taken, Minako and Evan, Rei and Chad, Makoto and Ken and even Ami-Chan had Greg. Then I drew away from 'girl-time' in which they chose to talk about their love lives and how well their relationships were going.
No one ever knew the real me. To my parents I was an undeviating mistake, a spoilt brat who wanted nothing more than to get her way. To my friends I was just a hopeless blotch on their unblemished records. Just somebody in their way of achieving the ultimate perfection. To my brother I was a pesky older sister who did nothing more than fall over and cry.
After retreating from the little 'girl-time' we had left apart from when they talked about their boyfriends I drew away. At first I was late to meetings, I was never able to go out with them anymore then I missed the meetings, more and more each week. Eventually, I stopped going altogether. They did not notice or even call.
My plan worked. After that they didn't even recognize my existence, our friendship was severed.
Now if you ask the last remaining person who ever knew me about me they would tell you I was the most stupid and selfish person that ever lived. They'll tell you that I walked away from my destiny that hot summer's day.
The day that forever changed my life.
The day that I, Usagi Tsukino died.
The day I went cold. Now all I am is a shell of what was there before that day. Before the day that changed the timelines all over the world. The day I walked away from my destiny.
Now I don't feel anything anymore. My whole body is numb I cant feel the sharp knife as it dances across my veins. Not even when I cut deeper.
So now I shall force myself to feel.
I will touch the veins with the cool metal and I will cut them.
Maybe I will hear the sound of an elastic band snapping, or maybe I will hear the sound of nothingness, the sound of nobody caring.
I might feel a sharp sting or maybe the worst pain that I've ever experience in this 'life' as they call it. I doubt that though. Because I am only a moving body. I have become cold. Completely numb.
I will probably feel nothing, as I will let the vein snap and seal my fate.
The blood is the only thing that is really keeping me alive, if I was completely drained of blood, I would be dead.
But the blood is warm; it forgives where nobody and nothing else will ever forgive.
So now I am lifting my left hand. Over the opened-up wrist. And there it is. I can have death now. I will have death. So now I clench my fist and hold it like that for a few seconds and I let go. The blood rushes back and that's the last time I'll ever have to feel the blood run again.
One of my veins almost seems to pop out.
This is it. My last chance.
I push the knife downwards and tear the little vein.
I may be numb but I'm going dizzy as I let a bitter chuckle escape my lips for what must be the last time ever.
The knife just went deeper it's still in my inner-wrist.
I may be numb but I can feel the pain of dying.
"See you in heaven and goodbye." Were the last words whispered as Usagi Tsukino died.