Hello! Depressing stuff because I love depressing stuff. So yeah. Enjoy.
Clary Pov
Cut one.
She found herself starting to watch it, peering closer, and frustration filed her as the cut remained the same color as the rest of her skin. She began pulling her skin in opposite direction, desperate to see the red of her blood gushing out. Finally, a small tint of red began to come up through tiny whole faster and faster, and she leaned back inspecting it as the blood gushed out like a fountain. Thank god she found this razor.
Before she was forced to use the dull kitchen knives of her small home, and when no blood came out, she had to cut multiple times over the same cut before even a small trickle came out. But ever since she broke her razor for shaving, pulling out the little blade with precise fingers, careful not to touch the sharp edge on the pads of her fingers. Since that time a few weeks ago, her cutting had tripled. Now all up her leg was covered in the scars ranging from long and deep to shallow and short. Her stomach was splattered with cuts for as far as she could reach. The only untouched spot were her arms. There her mother would notice.
Cut two.
This time, the blood came through openly immediately, running down her arms and dripping unto the clean white tiles of the bathroom. Gently, all while staring at the cut, she lifted her leg and placed into the warm water of her tub. The water felt so good against her cuts, caressing them. But no. She deserved the pain. Ignoring the pleasure she lowered herself into the tub and submerged herself in the water, hissing softly when the water touched her new cuts.
She glanced around the room, all cleaned to perfection. As usual. Everything in her house was stinking perfect. No flaw. Except for her.
Not for long.
Cut three.
The blood poured out quicker than before, and tainted the bathwater a murkier pink. This time was probably deeper. Good. She watching in fascination as the blood exploded from her legs, like the blood was trapped there too long and finally was released.
Cut four.
The blood piled out again, but this time, she wanted more.
Cut five.
Cut six.
Cut seven.
This if for you, kids of school, she shouted in her head, picturing their perfectly pampered faces glaring at her scornfully. Picking on her. She heard the names they called her. Freak. Stupid. Loser. Nerd. Retarded. Soulless ginger. The list went on and on. She could see them. Now. Even through her haze.
Cut eight.
Cut nine.
Cut ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Her eyes started to blur faintly. She didn't fight it. She welcomed it with open arms. This meant she was losing too much blood. At this rate, she would be done in about an hour.
The bathwater was now almost bright red, and it was so thick, she couldn't see through it. She nodded her head triumphantly, a weak smile crossing her face. Good.
Her whole already cut up leg was now bursting with new scars, deeper than before. As she intended it to be.
But soon, she found herself wanting to switch legs. Share the pain evenly.
Harshly she dug into her skin on the opposite leg, pressing down her hardest before she swiped the blade across the her skin quickly, hissing as the burning sensation occurred. But it didn't hurt her. She took pleasure in it.
Cut fourteen.
Cut fifteen.
Cut sixteen.
Cut seventeen.
Each one was deeper than the other. Each one gushed out more blood than the one before. She took so much pride in herself for finally doing something right.
Shame it was killing herself.
Cut eighteen.
Cut nineteen.
Cut twenty.
At this ceruminous number, she lifted the blade up, hands and arms shaking, and slowly placed it on the untouched barren land of her arms. Where did people cut on their arms? Her clouded brain thought. It took a bit before an image came into her mind. An arm. It was slipped to the underside. Where it wasn't tan, but white. And across the arm were dozens of tiny, short, shallow cuts. But each one oozed a trickle of blood. The sight inspired her, and she lifted her blade one again, hand trembling harder than before.
She dropped her hand down, unable to lift it for so long. She drug her arms across the water and perched it right before her arm. With a burst of energy, she spastically spurred it across her arm, an angry red line following after it.
Like when you drag a stick through the water, her mind reminded her, and she found herself giggling softly at the thought. Than harder. But while she giggled, she gradually lifted the blade and quickly swiped it across her arm again.
Ow! Her mind softly reminded her of pain a few seconds late. She found the power to clutch her arms where she had just cut.
That hurts more than the legs, she grumpily thought before swiping it across again. And again. And again, each time hissing with a pain that made her moan as well.
Cut thirty seven.
Cut thirty eight.
Cut thirty nine.
Her mind now was gone. Only a giggling, nonsensical creature deemed in its place as it thought thoughts of least utmost importance.
I should try someplace new, her mind convinced her, and she frowned slightly at her soiled body, covered in bleeding wounds. Her stomach, now open with blood. Legs red. Arms covered. Finally, she glanced down one more time before resting on her small chest, which bore no scars. A mischievous smile crossed her face and she attempted to lift her arms, but found she couldn't move it. A shaking frown covered her face, and she tried again. It slowly rose, shaking furiously. But she couldn't seem to find the muscles to stop frowning.
Whatever.
She found the strength just to lift the blade up for a few rocky seconds before her hand dropped, limp.
Right on her chest.
A red flowed from around the blade, but she couldn't move the blade.
At all.
So she kept pressing down, watching as the blood turned from a light red to a deep scarlet red. Mustering all her remaining strength, she drug the blade across the chest, forming a zip zaggy line, angry red line following it.
If she wasn't so numb, she would have felt how her chest hurt more than everywhere else. But she did notice how only a small little red line of blood came out, slowly, in a gradual trickle.
She wanted to press harder, but couldn't find the apart from her that controlled her arms. Instead, her arms just spastically shoke across her chest, resting on one spot before jerking to another. She no longer controlled it.
Her breaths were shaky and slow, and she couldn't breathe deep. Only slow, shallow breaths. Her whole body shook with each one as well. Her whole body hurt with each one. Especially her front. Whatever organs were in the front hurt the most. She couldn't even remember what part of her body that hurt was called. Or what made them hurt. Or what she was doing. Or who she was.
Only that she wanted to die.
She didn't question why. Only that was her mission.
And since it was the only thing she remembered, she didn't try to stop it when her vision went black. Or when her body went slack. When her hand stopped shaking across her chest. Or when the pain stopped.
Or when her thoughts stopped.
Or her hearing stopped.
Or when her heart stopped.
So did you like? Or do you wanna kill me? Yeah. Sorry. I just like writing about his shit, stop judging! I might write another chapter, about what happens Jocelyn comes home to find her daughter like that….. should she live, or die? Because they can attempt to bring her back if that's what you guys really REALLLY want. Because I want to kill her. I like killing people in my writings. It allows me to bring in emotions that I am familiar with. You will find in my writings, thati will often write about what I want to do, but can't. So yeah That's what this was about. Yup. Sorry. I try to only write about things I lived through or read enough on to know what would happen. Or would like to try because I know those emotions. Now I am ranting. Because I am bored. Because I finished.
Pls Comment! I love comments so much. Of any kind, truly.
Thanks so much! Read more of my stories, and comment on those as well. I truly appreciate each and every one.
Bye!