I do not own Ella Enchanted. It belongs to Gail Carson Levine.
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She felt warm. Lightheaded still, but she was conscious. Aware of things. She could feel the uncomfortable tiles of the bathroom floor beneath her; her face pressing against the carpet. She felt the straight razor in her left hand, and the stinging in her right arm. She had passed out. If only briefly, but still. She had taken such a big risk…But at least she hadn't been caught. She deserved a gold fucking medal for this. Sitting up (and struggling not to fall right back down), Hattie glanced up at the wall behind her, and the small wall clock declared the time to be 1:24 A.M… What time had she come home? Eight? And at what time did she go into the bathroom? Eleven? So only two hours and twenty-four minutes….her body never ceased to amaze her. She glanced down at her arm, and realized that it was not loss of blood that had made her so dizzy. She had only managed to cut herself once; sure, it had bled quite a bit, but it was nothing life-threatening. Then she remembered.
Her father.
How long had it been since she'd thought about him?
She hadn't since her fucking therapy session with Dr. Edith.
It hadn't done her any good, it only dug up old, unwelcome memories.
Hattie gripped the razor tight in her hand, and stood up, gripping the side of the sink for support. And she made the mistake of looking at herself in the mirror; clothes wrinkled, left arm cut open, hair tangled and a complete mess…ugh.
She turned away from her reflection in disgust, and turned her attention to the small droplets of blood on the bathroom floor. The previously pristine white tiles were dotted with red; how the fuck was she going to clean that up discreetly?
"Goddamn floor," Hattie mumbled, turning around, and leaning against the side of the sink. She looked at her arm, and sighed. Bandage…she rummaged around in the medicine cabinet, and found a roll of very official-looking medical bandages, much like the ones that were on her wrists. She wrapped some around her arm, and rolled her sleeve down. Now all that she had left was the floor…
And then she suddenly remembered; she had another appointment with Dr. Edith today.
"Not that bitch…not today…" she mumbled, and suddenly, she wanted to take a blade to her wrists again. Just to get back at Dr. Edith for thinking that she'd made any sort of difference. Because she hadn't. She'd only made things so much worse. Bringing back memories of her father (and she used that term fucking loosely) was not part of Hattie's recovery. It was a road block.
But oh no, Dr. Edith had insisted on hearing all about Hattie's sordid family life, how fucked up her father was and how passive and silent her mother was. How she'd had her first sip of vodka when she was twelve; from her daddy's secret stash; the cupboard that was locked…(too bad she'd found the key). There were so many things that she'd been forced to come clean about; how she really started hitting the vodka when she was fifteen, and how many guys had fucked her in the backseat of their car before school…
But she refused to talk about Ella, or the self-harming habits. No. That was just too fucking personal. The other shit was public; her feelings towards Ella and her cutting was all private.
And Hattie wanted to keep it that way.
Knock, knock.
Hattie jumped; she had been knocked so forcibly out of her dark reverie.
"Hattie? Hattie, is that you? Why are you awake now?"
It was her mother.
And there was still blood on the bathroom floor.
And a bloody razor blade in her hand.
