[Author's Note/Disclaimer: This is a little three-shot that is quite a bit darker than the average Mojo fic. I'd love to get some feedback, so let me know what you think! I do not own RENT or any part of it, and I don't intend to claim any of it in any way. Thank you, Jonathan Larson!]

Diary of Blood

Chapter One

"It's not actually a blade," I reason, as I examine the object in my hand. "It's just a little piece of ceramic from a plate that broke a while back; so that can't be as bad as a real blade. Can it?"

Is this even bad? I don't know anymore. Everybody says it is, and they all seem to really believe it. I used to believe it. And when I stopped I used to try to tell myself that I still did, but lately this seems too right to possibly be wrong. Yet something inside of me- way deep down- does understand how scary it is that I've held on to this sharp, jagged, little, white triangle for weeks with this exact purpose in mind for it. But I push this part of me down, instead focusing on the anger I feel toward myself for being too weak and fearful to use a real blade.

"If you're going to do this, can't you at least do it right?" I criticize myself. But I know the answer is that I can't. Somehow, I'm not too far-gone to grasp the concept that, with a blade, I'm very capable- once I get myself going- of doing more damage than I know for sure that I want to do.

So I get creative. First, it was the little words cut into my arms and legs with a safety pin: words that I now whisper to myself as a reminder, in case I'd somehow managed to forget that they are true.

"Ugly…Worthless…Weak…Pathetic…Unlovable…Untalented…Insane…Hopeless…"

Do I really believe all of these things? Sometimes I'm not sure. When I was writing them I did.

Next, I tried burns. Nothing too bad- just little burns on my fingertips with the curling iron. Just little ones; just to see how it would make me feel. I tried it twice, but it just didn't work. It's much better to write out the words.

Some people write about their feelings in a diary, and it helps them cope. Really, that's not much different from what I do: I cope by writing about my feelings- on me.

After I gave up on the burns and went back to cuts, I tried using a lot of different things: tweezers, a sharp edge of broken plastic, the hook of a metal hanger; it didn't matter much what it was- just as long as it wasn't so sharp that it made me start thinking about consequences. I do not want to die. I just sometimes need a little help coping with life.

Really, I make it sound worse than it is. I only do this on the really bad days. I only do it when the crippling insecurity that I spend so much time and energy trying to bury gets hold of me, and I don't know how to tell someone that I need help, much less whom I would tell. My family? They've all but disowned me at this point. My friends? There's no way on earth I would let them all in on this secret. Besides, they would only try to drag me along to one of those Life Support meetings, where they would proceed to try to force me to reveal this part of myself to even more people. As if they have any business in knowing how I feel about myself.

And then there's Joanne. I love her, so shouldn't I be able to talk to her? I wish I could. But she would finally leave me for good once she saw how weak and pathetic and insane I am. And I'm trying to put that off for as long as possible. Besides, with my natural tendency toward being a flirt, I'm already treading on thin ice in the Joanne department.

I only do this maybe once a month, which really isn't so bad. Is it? And I mostly blame this little habit- bad or otherwise- on the fact that I'm so terrible with words.

I can't tell people how secretly uncomfortable I am with being touched; so I let them do whatever they want, and then, when I'm finally alone, I sob uncontrollably for a long time before I write 'weak'. I can't tell people that the stupid anti-anxiety medication prescribed by the stupid psychiatrist Joanne made me see just makes me feel sick instead of doing any good, and I feel like I'm slowly falling apart while I wait for it to start helping; so I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time, pondering the fact that I'm so broken that this medicine can't even fix me, before I write 'insane'. I can't tell people that I've never- in my whole life- believed the phrase 'I love you' when it was used in regards to me; so I use the phrase and mean it completely, while ignoring it when it's directed toward me, before I write 'unlovable'. I can't tell people that I feel scared and alone and helpless and confused; so I lie and pretend that everything is okay, before I write 'hopeless'.

While I'm ruminating on all of these things, I lower myself to sit on the cold, white tile of the kitchen floor, realizing that I'm shaking so badly that I can barely manage the maneuver. I observe the fairly subtle contrast of my ivory skin against the floor tiles with that feeling, which, in me, passes as something almost akin to admiration. But that's before I sternly remind myself that there is nothing beautiful about pale skin that can only burn instead of tanning. I can't believe I was about to think otherwise.

I think instead about the reasons I'm doing this tonight: the fight with Joanne two days ago, along with the fact that we're still barely speaking to each other; the rehearsal for my latest performance piece last night that I just couldn't seem to get on track; the call I received this morning informing me that I lost the role I did three auditions for and wanted desperately; the disaster of a performance protest I tried and failed to write this afternoon. I feel tears begin to sting my eyes, fanning the flames of my anger and self-loathing.

"Of course you're crying: you're too weak not to. You're pathetic. Why do you even try? You're useless anyway. You're never going to be good enough." I reach up my left hand to wipe away the tears, making sure to dig my nails into my cheek hard enough to draw blood. The pain brings on more tears, which feel like fire as they trickle down into the gashes I've created. In spite of the pain, this amount of which would usually be enough to scare me out of doing any further damage, all I can think is, "I hate myself."

I try the phrase out loud while examining the pale, tender skin on the inside of my left forearm. "I hate myself." One drop of the cocktail of blood and tears drips from my cheek onto my arm. For some reason this image sets me off, and I scream it: "I HATE MYSELF!" The phrase has become a declaration rather than an experiment.

I grip the piece of ceramic in my right hand and drag the sharp, broken edge across the skin of my left arm, just below the inside of my elbow. I wince as I both see and feel the skin breaking, but I don't stop until there are bloody markings all the way down to the heel of my hand.

The pain is almost unbearable now. I drop the piece of ceramic and survey my work. For a brief moment I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, but it's short-lived. The pride quickly morphs into terror, and I soon find myself lost in the throes of a panic attack. I vaguely hear a knock at the door.

Of course, I don't bother to acknowledge it. I'm in no state to do so, anyway. I cradle my limp, ravaged arm in my lap, staining my sheer, white tank top as I do. I'm beginning to feel dizzy: whether from the pain or the fear or the blood loss, I couldn't say. I hear the knocking again.

After another period of time- it could be a minute, it could be an hour- the phone rings. It's on the counter just above the spot in which I'm sitting, and I wait for the ringing to give way to the voicemail recorder, somehow curious despite my pain to see who's on the other end of the line. A few moments later, the voicemail kicks in, and I hear: "Hey, Maureen. I don't know where the heck you would be right now besides lying on the couch, so if you'd open the door so I don't have to dig through my purse for five minutes looking for my key that would be awesome…"

I freeze mid-sob. "She's home. She can't be home! It's only five-thirty! She said she was working late tonight-"

There is a sigh on the voicemail recorder: "Fine, Maureen. You win…" I hear her set down her briefcase and whatever else she has with her, but she doesn't hang up. It also sounds like she hasn't set down that monster of a cordless phone she carries all the time. She's still hoping against hope that I'll pick up and tell her she doesn't have to bother with her search, which is what I usually do.

"She said she assumed she'd be working late, you moron. And she's about to walk in here and discover that you're completely insane." I know even before I do it that it is a horrible idea, but I answer the phone anyway. I have no idea why. "Hello?" I rasp. I can scarcely believe the sound of my own voice. Not only is it raspy from my hysterical sobbing, it cracks on the second syllable of the word. On top of these things, my breathing is utterly ragged.

"Maureen? Honeybear, what happened? Are you okay?" Hearing her voice and knowing how close she is to discovering my secret sends me spiraling into another panic attack.

"Nothing happened," I try to assure her, noting the panic in my voice, which I know she'll detect as well. I picture her searching faster and faster for her key, moments away from walking in and destroying the delicate balance I've so carefully created. "I just woke up. I don't know how I managed to sleep through the phone-" I stop. The key is in her hand now. I can tell because in the background and can hear her picking up her stuff. "Don't come in!" I shriek.

I hear the key turning in the lock and the door creaking open. And in a moment of sheer hysteria I pick up the piece of ceramic and begin shredding every inch of exposed flesh I can find.