Incapability to Live and Love
Elsa P.O.V.
No. Please, not now. Talk about bad timing.
I was eating dinner with mom, dad, and Anna when it happened. My first serious panic attack hit me. Hard.
I hurried out the kitchen, ran to the bathroom. Locked the door, slid down the wall. Felt the cold seep through my thin crop top, and its fingers rip my skin open.
I was feeling faint. Too faint. Why ? Why was this happening ?
My sobs rocked my body. I always thought that was just an overused cliché, but now, now I knew they weren't kidding.
Got up, washed my face with cold water. Usual routine to hide the redness and tears. Deep breaths.
God I wanted to cut so badly. I'd sworn it off for quite a few weeks now. I'd never wanted to more than now, feel the sharp sting, the beads of crimson blood appear magically on the surface of my skin. I always cleaned them though, with some rubbing alcohol to disinfect.
I used to tell myself that since the cuts weren't deep, since they didn't bleed excessively, and since they weren't across my wrists, they weren't dangerous. But an inch below my elbow on my inner arms, the scars say otherwise. Just because they weren't killing me now, didn't mean they wouldn't eventually.