A/N: Well, here's summore angst for ya. Um, all the characters belong to KidsWB and Marvel and some other people. The.... well, really nothing belongs to me. Okay. Review, please.
Blood is pretty.
It's like this deep, bright red, shiny and rich. Dripping onto the bathroom sink, so much it spills onto the floor. And to think, I have gallons more just waiting to be let out. To be set free, if you will.
I was too much of a wuss to use a knife. So I pulled apart a razor, took out one of the blades. I was shaking when I pressed down and dragged it across my skin, hoping it wouldn't hurt as bad as I did already. And it didn't. It stung a little bit, but I got this incredible head rush. Like adrenaline mixed with pot mixed with that feeling you get after winning a game of Monopoly. It's... indescribable, and incredible. Like the ultimate high.
So I just kept cutting. I made fourteen individual cuts that night. Small ones, but cuts nonetheless.
"What's that on your wrist?"
"My cat scratched me."
That's what I told everyone. I've never even had a cat.
The next night, I cut more. All over my shoulders, deeper cuts this time. I wished I could see my back, a huge stretch of vermillion skin that ached and tingled in pain and pleasure. Hot and cold. Black and white.
I suppose they believed my "cat scratch" story, because no one else talked about it. They were all over me-- thighs, shoulders, belly, back, hands, neck-- and yet no one saw. I was the only one. It was my secret. I could cover myself up with clothes. Like my clothes were a safe that kept prying eyes and minds away from the precious jewelry I kept there.
One day, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, just when I got out of the shower. I don't like looking at my ugly face and body, and have no mirrors in my room, but I wasn't allowed to take them out of the bathroom. So I was naked, in the bathroom, and I looked at myself. And looked. And looked some more.
Light and dark scars scattered my pale skin, making me look like a walking battlefield. My face was thin and drawn, and I had dark circles under my eyes. I'd been letting so much blood out, I was losing too much. Even I could see that.
I sobbed and felt tears running down my face. They stung hot as they trickled out, but at the same time felt good.
Like my blood. My jewels. My crimson.
Carefully, very carefully, I lifted the razor off of the counter and dropped it into the trash can. I never wanted to see that... that THING again. It was a symbol for all the horrible things I've done or thought. All the pain I've felt and caused. Right at that moment, I wanted someone. Anyone. To talk to, to hold me, to tell me everything was alright. I didn't want to keep myself at a distance from other people anymore, or cover myself up with excessive clothing.
There was a dance. At school, it started in twenty minutes. I remembered from all the girls talking about it in the bathroom at school. I put on my make-up and got dressed as quickly as I could, and I remember yelling as I headed out the door.
"Irene, Ah'm gonna go to the dance, Ah'll be back in about an hour."
"Alright, dear. Have a good time.
Blood is pretty.
It's like this deep, bright red, shiny and rich. Dripping onto the bathroom sink, so much it spills onto the floor. And to think, I have gallons more just waiting to be let out. To be set free, if you will.
I was too much of a wuss to use a knife. So I pulled apart a razor, took out one of the blades. I was shaking when I pressed down and dragged it across my skin, hoping it wouldn't hurt as bad as I did already. And it didn't. It stung a little bit, but I got this incredible head rush. Like adrenaline mixed with pot mixed with that feeling you get after winning a game of Monopoly. It's... indescribable, and incredible. Like the ultimate high.
So I just kept cutting. I made fourteen individual cuts that night. Small ones, but cuts nonetheless.
"What's that on your wrist?"
"My cat scratched me."
That's what I told everyone. I've never even had a cat.
The next night, I cut more. All over my shoulders, deeper cuts this time. I wished I could see my back, a huge stretch of vermillion skin that ached and tingled in pain and pleasure. Hot and cold. Black and white.
I suppose they believed my "cat scratch" story, because no one else talked about it. They were all over me-- thighs, shoulders, belly, back, hands, neck-- and yet no one saw. I was the only one. It was my secret. I could cover myself up with clothes. Like my clothes were a safe that kept prying eyes and minds away from the precious jewelry I kept there.
One day, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, just when I got out of the shower. I don't like looking at my ugly face and body, and have no mirrors in my room, but I wasn't allowed to take them out of the bathroom. So I was naked, in the bathroom, and I looked at myself. And looked. And looked some more.
Light and dark scars scattered my pale skin, making me look like a walking battlefield. My face was thin and drawn, and I had dark circles under my eyes. I'd been letting so much blood out, I was losing too much. Even I could see that.
I sobbed and felt tears running down my face. They stung hot as they trickled out, but at the same time felt good.
Like my blood. My jewels. My crimson.
Carefully, very carefully, I lifted the razor off of the counter and dropped it into the trash can. I never wanted to see that... that THING again. It was a symbol for all the horrible things I've done or thought. All the pain I've felt and caused. Right at that moment, I wanted someone. Anyone. To talk to, to hold me, to tell me everything was alright. I didn't want to keep myself at a distance from other people anymore, or cover myself up with excessive clothing.
There was a dance. At school, it started in twenty minutes. I remembered from all the girls talking about it in the bathroom at school. I put on my make-up and got dressed as quickly as I could, and I remember yelling as I headed out the door.
"Irene, Ah'm gonna go to the dance, Ah'll be back in about an hour."
"Alright, dear. Have a good time.
