She stared at the razor placed gingerly between her fingers, tilting it to
shine its light all over the walls of her room. The sun was pouring onto her
floor, creating a pool of warmth, yet she still felt so cold. The razor was ice cold
between her fingertips. Cutting was still a form of escape for her. She was always
so fascinated by the steady trickle of blood that leaked from her once-pumping
veins. It took her mind off of her death. How ironic. She thought that in death, she would
discover the meaning of life. She later found that it left her with more questions than
it did answers. It baffled her that a corpse, could still pump blood through her veins, take
oxygen into her lungs and pulsate warmth between her thighs that coiled up into
her stomach. She never lost her most basic, natural and most importantly
human qualities.
Being dead also gave her plenty of time to think, which was the last thing
she wanted to do. Especially in this house. She found that as time dragged on,
her thoughts became more and more distorted and out of her control. She assumed
that's what happened when you fell in love with a ghost with bloodlust, who just
by chance raped your mother. She really began to lose it when she stood in front
of her decaying body. There was just no way that she was standing in the
crawlspace, staring down at her once living capsule of a body. Who wouldn't lose
it?
Feelings would come and go, like smoke being exhaled from lungs, from lips,
disappearing into thin air. More often than not she felt weak. Weak for still
getting butterflies when she thought of him. Weak for sliding down the back of
her door and letting out strangled sobs, waiting for his arms to sweep her up
and kiss away her pain. She knew she could have it. She knew that in a moment,
he would be there, ready to rescue her, just like he attempted when she
swallowed all those pills. To put it simply, she felt weak for loving a boy who
shot up her highschool in 1994, killed the couple who lived in this very house
just a year ago, and raped her mother in the same rubbersuit he passionately
kissed her in beneath the shadows of the basement. She felt sick thinking about
it. She was just as insane as he was, just for loving him despite all that he's
done.
She wouldn't hide from him. She was far too proud for that bullshit. She'd walk
freely through the house, false confidence and adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream,
similar to the way she once walked the courtyard at Westfield, smoke billowing around her face.
Nobody really paid much attention to her, everyone in the house was too wrapped up in
their own thoughts. That's the thing about this house. You're trapped with numerous souls,
yet you still feel so incredibly alone. She didn't know who she was torturing
more. Herself or the boy who lurked in the shadows, watching her every move. She
could feel him, but not as strongly as she used to. When she first banished him,
she could feel him so strongly that it made her want to pull her hair out. She
knew he was watching her. In those first few months, she refused to cry. She
wanted him to believe that she was just fine without him. In reality, she wanted
to scream out his name. Only in sleep would she escape the feeling of him,
hovering behind her like a disembodied shadow. She knew she didn't need to
sleep, but besides dragging the blade across her wrist, sleep was her only
escape. She was glad she didn't dream. She knew all her dreams would be of Tate.
Both beautiful, fulfilling dreams and teeth grinding nightmares. She knew she'd
wake up in a sweat, and immidiately tears would spring to life in her glassy
eyes. She'd bite her wrist to muffle the sobs shaking her lungs. Instead, she'd
wake up feeling empty, slowly sitting up and looking around the room. A part of
her always expected to see him sitting in the corner, those dark eyes piercing
through her sternum. She never saw them. She told herself she never wanted to
see them again. She would keep telling herself she didn't want to see them.
The razor fell out of her hand and onto the floor in front of her. She had
been so lost in thought that the sun was now setting, the warmth of the sun on
her floor had completely disappeared, leaving her sitting the middle of her
bedroom floor engulfed by darkness. The air in the room suddenly shifted.
"You promised you'd never cut yourself again", came the all too familiar voice from
behind her. She was almost too afraid to turn around. She knew if she turned
around, she'd fall into his arms, whispering promises of never leaving his side
again. She squeezed her eyes shut, picking up her razor. Her hands were shaking so
violently that it startled her. She was usually "little ms. nerves of steel." But not lately.
She braced herself, tears already forming in her eyes.
"Go away", she muttered in a broken voice, pressing down and slicing as she did so.