Maggot
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Warning: graphic descriptions of self-harm.
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Her arms are itchy, like there's something just beneath the surface, begging to be let out, and her chest feels a little heavy, right there on the left upper side, where her heart is, and she's nauseous. She keeps picturing a little blade, a little metal blade, and it's cold, and sharp, not blunt like stupid, useless, shitty scissors.
God, she's itchy.
And it's too quiet. She can hear the silence pressing in, and it's almost buzzing as it shoves at her eardrums and she's so fucking itchy, but she doesn't even have a little piece of metal, but there are small needles in her sewing kit — maybe —
But no, she's never done that, and she doesn't want to go deep — not like that, at least — she wants to slice, and she wants to slice her arms, because she knows the skin there is soft and creamy and it'll hurt so much, so fucking much, and it'll be a delicious feeling.
She knows she won't feel it for a moment, but then it'll slam into her, that pain which is so sharp and so strong it might just roll her head back, and there won't be any blood — not at first — because she's not afraid of that little blade, and her hand will be steady and fast. She'll see that strange, purplish-white flesh, with its dark symmetrical dots, but she hasn't studied this in depth, so she doesn't know the proper names (and she doesn't care to, either, and how strange that is). Then — then —
Oh, god. The blood will come pouring out, filling the laceration like heavy rains fill potholes, and there'll be so much that it streaks down the side, a stunning red that is simultaneously dark and bright, and she'll dip a fingertip in and taste it, because that's her ritual, isn't it, and it'll taste like copper, and she'll be so calm, and everything will be perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Fuck. She keeps picturing a little blade, a little metal blade, and it's cold, and sharp, not blunt like stupid, useless, shitty scissors.
Please.
But she can't.
Because people know, and she's a bright witch, so she knows their reactions will be greater than the absolute relief she'd feel, so she bites down onto that soft piece of skin between her thumb and index finger, and it's like fire, the feeling — not as good as a blade, nowhere near as good, actually, but it'll do. It'll have to do.
She's Hermione Granger. She always thinks of something.
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