The reflection that peered back at Stella looked just as bedraggled as she did that night, if not worse; pale skin and sunken cheeks that were a telltale by-product of overworking and under-eating, baggy eyes that had lost the colour and life they once held, smudged mascara and reddened cheeks from hours of sobbing. Perhaps the worst part of all was the prominent scar left from the fist of her ex-lover. The scar lay under her right eye, starting near her top eyelid, curving around to the bottom lid. The coarse ridges of her fingertips lightly traced the rough skin on her cheek, the night unfolding for the thousandth time in her mind, playing on a constant loop.
A shudder sidled through Stella's body as she perched herself on the edge of the porcelain tub. She couldn't stand to be in this apartment anymore. Everywhere she looked the memories attacked her mind, figuratively slicing her apart. Frankie, a man she once loved and trusted had broken into her home, assaulted her, raped her and held her captive in her living quarters. The night ended with Frankie's bloodied body splayed across the floor of her Midtown apartment. Stella had been given no other choice but to empty three rounds into his chest at point blank range. No matter how much she scrubbed or what products she used, she could not extract the lingering scent of blood in the air. His presence haunts not only the physical space, his evil deeds are a constant fuel for the hellfire enclosed within Stell.
Stella's penchant for mutilating herself had started in that very bathtub, wrists and ankles bound tight with a thin white cord. Her only chance to break free was to snap open the shaving razor that resided by the edge of the bath. In the process, she had butchered her fingers, the blade slicing clumsily into her numbed skin. Through clenched teeth and teary eyes, came the realisation that the stinging and throbbing spreading throughout her body had helped to calm and distract her.
The caterwauling of a siren in the distance yanked her from her thoughts and launched her back into reality. Stella cradled the deadly box, the shaking of her hands causing the blades to clink together. Stella's breathing faltered as she slipped the first blade out of the black plastic casing. Her fingers carefully grasped the implement, her eyes trailing the glints of light reflecting from the steel, her demons salivating in delight at what was to come.
Stella pressed the blade into her left wrist, placing downward pressure on the corner as she swiped the blade toward herself, down the length of her forearm. She'd easily penetrated the subcutaneous fat layer and within seconds she'd made another deft slice. The crisp winter air assaulted her lungs as she gasped with the sudden intense pain bolting through her arm and up into her chest. The first cut or two were always the most painful, pain which would gradually worsen until she either severed her nerve endings or lost consciousness. It took a handful of seconds for the blood to reach the surface of the initial cuts. The inside of her arm resembled a bucket of buttered popcorn - red bloodied edges and squishy, mustardy bubbles of fat in the centre, each glob of yellow languidly succumbing to the ocean of red.
Stell watched as the steel sunk deep past the resistance of skin, her rheumy eyes shining with ambivalence. The demons within her clawed their way to supremacy, reigning over her moral standards and urge suppression abilities. Whilst she held great disdain against herself for the damage she thrust upon not just her being, but upon those around her, Stella did not want to stop. Instead, she wanted to destroy herself completely, no matter the cost.
Swipe after swipe, cut after cut, Stella's strength dwindled, her breath became shallower and her vision hazed. With each rived vein, artery and arteriole, blood spurted outwards like a demented fountain, each drop of blood clinging to the garish cream interior of her bathroom. It was not long before the bathtub began filling with blood, the walls coated with a crude crimson stucco. Even the ceiling was smattered with the viscous fluid. The smell was suffocating, the metallic aroma of death penetrated her nostrils and her soul. It gripped her tight and choked the air from her lungs, threatening to send her stomach contents flying. Stella couldn't quite comprehend why the smell was affecting her to such a degree, after all, she dealt with crime scenes for a living, she was no stranger to blood, guts and gore.
Blotches of black and white waltzed in her vision, and tears flooded out of her vacuous orbs as she gingerly unwrapped a new blade. The corner of the blade entered the deep gash, slicing maniacally underneath the skin, probing for the right spots to damage. Stella knew from the countless bodies she'd seen that slicing diagonally instead of straight down was a more efficient method. It takes effort and precision to hit the right arteries and slice down through muscle. The damage is elevated when one goes ham, slicing beneath the skin in short, rapid bursts, making as many wounds as possible. Stella was on a mission to widen the wound and increase her chances of severing her veins and arteries, leading ultimately to exsanguination.
A deluge of pain rushed over Stella, her muscles twitching and her body writhing, followed by an animalistic screech which perforated the deafening silence of the apartment. The bitter torrents rushed upstream to her neck and shoulders where they then plummeted down the cliffside to her torso and legs. It was as though her blood had been replaced by caustic soda, the fiery surge of pain coursing through her veins, the liquid scorching her flesh as it exited her being. The intensity and manner of the pain indicated that her last slice had shredded through fascia and punctured the muscle beneath. The external pain she now felt would never rival that of the pain felt by her soul. Thus she kept hacking away at herself, adjoining vertical cuts to the main gorge.
The final damage consisted of one long, gaping gash that ran from her inner elbow down to the start of her palm. Smaller wounds jutted out horizontally from the main chasm, reminiscent of a centipede with mangled legs. Her forearm had almost doubled in size from the sheer depth and width of wound. Blood had started to coagulate within the lacerations, the jelly-like substance clinging to her like glue. The inside of her broken body was redder and murkier than the very depths of hell, which is where she was sure she'd end up. In a way she welcomed the stifling heat of hell, as she felt oh so cold, the fiery surges of pain had surrendered to the piercing cold. Icy pangs stabbing at her heart, her breath now coming in shallow, agonised gasps.
The hand of darkness had wrapped itself around her throat, squeezing all the life from within her body. Her mind and soul were numbed to the pain, her world just floating away into the abyss. There was no bright light or wall of flashing memories, just a calming void of nothingness, the only indication that she was still alive was the rumbling thrum of blood rushing through her ears. Her butchered body hit the wall with a resounding thud as she tumbled backwards, her consciousness fading, her life cascading down the drain, destined for the underworld.