Disclaimer: First off, this is my first fanfic ever. And guess what? I don't own anybody or anything in this world, including the characters alluded to herein, and I doubt their original creators would appreciate what I've done to them, either. I'm sorry!
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Penetration is always the hardest part. When you're looking down at something that is one way and you know you have the choice to change it into something different and new, it's easy to feel afraid of change and put your intentions away. And it is a commitment.
The hardest part of the whole thing is always sitting there with the tip of the blade poised, scratching your skin. That's the most crucial turning point, because you haven't committed yet. Then you do commit, because you must, because you want to, because you enjoy it, because you have the power and no one else can make this decision for you. So you do it. You penetrate. At first it's scary because nothing happens.
Your first idea is, maybe I should push it a little further, MAKE something happen. That's not necessary and is in fact a bit dangerous because once you get started it's hard to stop. If you're patient and you wait, you'll get what you want. First nothing for what seems like forever, then it rushes like a flood, almost. Then the decision is whether to push it further forward and make a longer line, or to withdraw and start again. And the decision is yours.
At this point you may be shaking your head and wondering what kind of idiot would actually do this. I know a lot of people just like you, who wouldn't understand. But to me it's a hobby, like stamp collecting or baseball cards. Instead of wax packs, I collect scars. You don't get any gum, but it's a hell of a rush. I started when I was younger, a teenager already accustomed to pain and anger and loss. Burned on the outside, raw in the middle. I stopped when things started getting serious with Rick. I thought I didn't need it anymore. And I didn't; I had him to think about, to take care of, to be taken care of by.
When he died I briefly entertained the idea of starting again one night when Irene had taken the kids out to give me the evening off. I had the knife ready, but I couldn't do it. It was a sign of weakness, I felt. It was crazy. I had the kids to think about, to take care of, to be taken care of by.
So why now? Because again I find myself alone and the person I was hasn't changed. I've only gotten more angry, more bitter, more injured. I am a magnet for loss. First Rick, then Fiona, now Jack has become so mature and self-sufficient that I'm not necessary in his life anymore, just an accessory of his semi-normal existence. So the night I found out about the unit that was "Jack and Annie" I knew exactly where to turn. Some things just don't change.
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Penetration is always the hardest part. When you're looking down at something that is one way and you know you have the choice to change it into something different and new, it's easy to feel afraid of change and put your intentions away. And it is a commitment.
The hardest part of the whole thing is always sitting there with the tip of the blade poised, scratching your skin. That's the most crucial turning point, because you haven't committed yet. Then you do commit, because you must, because you want to, because you enjoy it, because you have the power and no one else can make this decision for you. So you do it. You penetrate. At first it's scary because nothing happens.
Your first idea is, maybe I should push it a little further, MAKE something happen. That's not necessary and is in fact a bit dangerous because once you get started it's hard to stop. If you're patient and you wait, you'll get what you want. First nothing for what seems like forever, then it rushes like a flood, almost. Then the decision is whether to push it further forward and make a longer line, or to withdraw and start again. And the decision is yours.
At this point you may be shaking your head and wondering what kind of idiot would actually do this. I know a lot of people just like you, who wouldn't understand. But to me it's a hobby, like stamp collecting or baseball cards. Instead of wax packs, I collect scars. You don't get any gum, but it's a hell of a rush. I started when I was younger, a teenager already accustomed to pain and anger and loss. Burned on the outside, raw in the middle. I stopped when things started getting serious with Rick. I thought I didn't need it anymore. And I didn't; I had him to think about, to take care of, to be taken care of by.
When he died I briefly entertained the idea of starting again one night when Irene had taken the kids out to give me the evening off. I had the knife ready, but I couldn't do it. It was a sign of weakness, I felt. It was crazy. I had the kids to think about, to take care of, to be taken care of by.
So why now? Because again I find myself alone and the person I was hasn't changed. I've only gotten more angry, more bitter, more injured. I am a magnet for loss. First Rick, then Fiona, now Jack has become so mature and self-sufficient that I'm not necessary in his life anymore, just an accessory of his semi-normal existence. So the night I found out about the unit that was "Jack and Annie" I knew exactly where to turn. Some things just don't change.