The metal is no longer cool against her skin, the handles long having been warmed by her hands, which grip tightly, black painted nails digging into her palms, leaving red crescent-moon indents. The tiny amount of pain barely registers, not on a body that is used to so much more.

Her whole body feels alive, her skin crawling with excitement as the adrenaline courses through her blood. She trembles with anticipation, and sometimes she thinks that this is her favorite part – the moments just before, when she knows what's coming, and her breath quickens at the thought of it.

Her skirt is pushed up around her hips, her bare thigh raising gooseflesh as the cool air passes over it, though she suspects her skin knows what is coming, and is in a way, expressing its own desire. With practiced ease, she flicks open the scissors, tracing a finger over the excessively sharp blade, that she keeps that way for this very reason.

She doesn't do this because she's depressed, and no tears will streak her make-up. If she's honest, there isn't much she'd change about her life. Well, she'd be famous, of course, but she has the hottest boyfriend at Hollywood Arts, and she herself is talented. No, she does this because she enjoys it, every aspect of it.

At the first touch of the edge against her skin, her shakes dissipate, her world coming sharply into focus, every nerve ending concentrating on that one, thin line of pressure. A sigh escapes her throat, husky and low, it's a mix of pleasure and relief in equal parts, her hand relaxing it's death grip on the scissors now that her body has had a taste of what is in store.

Slowly, deliberately, she drags the blade, feeling her flesh part beneath it, and she can't help the quiet moan that forms in her throat. Her eyes are transfixed as the first droplets of blood form on her alabaster skin, a stark contrast that gives her almost as much pleasure as the pain itself.

They stay almost perfectly rounded with her stillness, and it's not until she reaches the end of the cut that the first bead rolls down her leg, leaving a deliciously bright mark in its wake. Soon after, the others follow suit, streaking down her thigh in almost flawlessly straight lines.

The second cut isn't nearly as neat, she doesn't savor it nearly as much, only interested in the end result, of the stinging and throbbing that comes from her actions. It's these feelings that she craves, almost constantly, her hands always fiddling with a pair of scissors as she subconsciously tries to conjure the memories of her last session, that remembered pain only just enough to tide her over until she lets herself do this again. She not ashamed – far from it, but she has to exercise some self-discipline.

She's lost count of how many cuts she's made when her body starts to tremble once again, letting her know that enough is enough. Jade stares down at the crisscross of red marks that arc across her pale skin, each eluding its own set of blood trails. She drops her head back against the wall, the scissors finally falling from her grasp, clattering to the floor in a sound that signals the end of this particular time, for how long, she doesn't know.

When she stands, pushing up off the wall, the blood slowly begins snaking down her leg, a few larger droplets trickling over her ankle and she has bend down, smearing them before they stain the floor. She throws one glance back over her shoulder at the discarded scissors, gleaming in all their well-used glory, before she makes her way to the bathroom, slightly disappointed that she has to wash away artwork she is rather proud of. Though, she knows that there will always be a next time, in which she can showcase her talent once again.