A/N: I do not own the copyright to The L Word, nor am I affiliated with anybody who does. Special shout-out to the wonderful A Hunter's Journal for proofreading and helping me edit this.
Even simply looking at her reflection in the mirror had steadily became a tedious task, for she loathed the pained, tired eyes that were now virtually unrecognisable to her. Never before had she looked so haggard. Even her complexion sported a more pallid appearance than usual, which was quite an achievement.
The remnants of last night's makeup still limply clung to Jenny's eyelids. Some of the clumpy mascara had slipped down to her cheekbones, streaking them grimly, due to the tears that she had shed this morning. She wasn't entirely sure if she was even crying out of emotion anymore or if it had just became habitual. Then again, Jenny couldn't elucidate any of her actions of late.
Before opening the storage cupboard that hung directly above the sink in the bathroom, Jenny traced her silver painted nails over some of the random cuts that she had decorated her arm with. Several ones not dissimilar could be found all over her body. She had ensured that they looked random and could easily be mistaken for simply a nail scratch or an animal bite so to avoid any questioning from her friends.
Jenny desired to really punish herself this morning. She could still barely fathom what she had done the previous night. Inviting her friends out to watch her strip and be leered at by sleazy men was a new low, even for Jenny Schecter. Yet she didn't regret it. Despite how fucking shameful it was, it had been her decision, and that was all she wanted: control. Repressed childhood memories of her sexual abuse had been relentlessly disemboweling her and she had only been further propelled into her darkness thanks to Mark and his creepy antics with the hidden cameras in the house.
Without a single hint of trepidation, Jenny's hand darted into the cupboard, retrieving an innocuous black compact. Deftly separating it asunder, she blankly stared at the glistening silver razor blades before removing them and placing the compact on the side of the sink.
Rows of blades savagely shredded her thighs to ribbons in a grotesquely artistic pattern of a crisscross, and Jenny loved every intense millisecond of it. Her creamy flesh was so easily excoriated, which reminded her that she was alive - a thought simultaneously exhilarating and petrifying. Confident that nobody else was in the house, she allowed herself to openly sob, her emotions unchained.
Physical, self-inflicted pain was negligible, what Jenny was so distraught over was her mind. She found that every time she attempted to describe how it was that she felt, she came to a blank. It was simply ineffable, a descriptor that she loathed since it felt cheap to her. Jenny had always been so brilliant at describing her feelings in an exaggeratedly poetic way.
Crimson blood had completely soaked her hands, it looked as if she were a part of a low-budget horror film where she starred as the murderer. Somehow, the thought made a small laugh erupt from her diaphragm and out of her mouth amongst all of the unceasing tears.
Recently, she had been described as "sick". She felt that the adjective was entirely apt. Despite her ambition, sick was truly all she would ever be. Jenny was nothing but a scourge, irrespective of how much she tried to make things right.
