I stopped myself. Fear and reason flooded beck into my brain. Why
was I doing this? I didn't hold pain well, why would I choose to inflict
it upon myself?
I had come into the kitchen for a glass of water. As I set down the glass, it caught my eye. It wasn't the first time it had caught my attention, but I had managed to ignore it, to push it back into the murky depths of my mind. But it was past midnight, there were no distractions. I saw it, I had used it so many times, to slice through flesh-not mine, but flesh just the same, the muscle of a once living creature. What was the last sensation felt, as the knife pierced the skin? Curiosity overwhelmed me. I rested my hand on the handle, feeling the shape of the handle, pressing my palm against it.
What did I hope to release with the blood? I had so many sour thought trapped inside of me, inside my veins, would it seep out, dripping onto the floor, to be wiped up and forgotten? I squeezed the handle tighter, trying to feel a pulse in the wood.
I could hear my brother shifting on the floor above. He was awake, and aware of my absence. I didn't have much time before he came to investigate. I picked up the knife exhilarated with the feeling of rush. Adrenaline pumped to my brain, working like a drug to alter my state of mind. My skin became a barrier, a cage instead of security. I wanted to take it off, tear it all of, I wanted to bleed until I ran dry, purge myself of all evil, all the wrong that had occurred in me.
I chose a spot. My upper arm, so Frank, at least, wouldn't notice. My skin looked so pale, so anemic and bland, simply begging to be colored. Laying the blade flat against my arm, I glanced at my reflection in the silver. I despised my face, and at that moment I could see why only my brother loved me, why it took so much pain to be loved.
I lifted the blade onto its edge, pressing it hard. I felt the warmness, a heat which intensified, for a moment, into an agonizing burn. Pulling the knife away, I watched the red bloom out, swelling, and dripping, drop by drop, onto the tile. Here we go; I counted the drops as the fell. One...two...three...I grinned in satisfaction. With every drop, I hated myself less, hated Frank and Columbia less, loved my brother more. Seven...eight...it was such a beautiful deep red, pooling onto the floor; I soaked it up with a towel, and watched it stain the towel, spreading out like an unfurling flag. Nine...ten...eleven... He would be angry when he noticed the scars traveling across my arms. There was no way to hide them, anything that could be covered in clothing would be revealed in his presence. I could only hope he would miss them, pass them over with his fingers, his lips. Twelve...thirteen...
I rinsed off the knife, threw away the towel, and, licking the last drops off my arm, climbed the stairs to bed.
AN: I don't know why, but I'm including the Tori Amos song for which this chapter is named:
*~* Blood Roses *~*
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
Back on the street now.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
Back on the street now.
Can't forget the things you never said.
On days like these gets me thinking.
When chickens get a taste of your meat.
When chickens get a taste of your meat, yes.
You gave him your blood
and your warm little diamond.
He likes killing you after you're dead.
You think I'm a queer.
I think you're a queer.
I think you're a queer.
Said I think you're a queer.
And I shaved every place where you been.
I shaved every place where you been, yes.
God knows, I know I've thrown away those graces.
God knows, I've thrown away those graces.
God knows, I know I've thrown away those graces.
The Belle of New Orleans tried to show me
once how to tango.
Wrapped around your feet
wrapped around like good little roses.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
back on the street now.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
back on the street now, now, now,
now you've cut out the flute
from the throat of the loon.
At least when you cry now,
he can't even hear you.
When chickens get a taste of your meat
Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on,
when sucks you deep.
Sometimes you're nothing but meat.
I had come into the kitchen for a glass of water. As I set down the glass, it caught my eye. It wasn't the first time it had caught my attention, but I had managed to ignore it, to push it back into the murky depths of my mind. But it was past midnight, there were no distractions. I saw it, I had used it so many times, to slice through flesh-not mine, but flesh just the same, the muscle of a once living creature. What was the last sensation felt, as the knife pierced the skin? Curiosity overwhelmed me. I rested my hand on the handle, feeling the shape of the handle, pressing my palm against it.
What did I hope to release with the blood? I had so many sour thought trapped inside of me, inside my veins, would it seep out, dripping onto the floor, to be wiped up and forgotten? I squeezed the handle tighter, trying to feel a pulse in the wood.
I could hear my brother shifting on the floor above. He was awake, and aware of my absence. I didn't have much time before he came to investigate. I picked up the knife exhilarated with the feeling of rush. Adrenaline pumped to my brain, working like a drug to alter my state of mind. My skin became a barrier, a cage instead of security. I wanted to take it off, tear it all of, I wanted to bleed until I ran dry, purge myself of all evil, all the wrong that had occurred in me.
I chose a spot. My upper arm, so Frank, at least, wouldn't notice. My skin looked so pale, so anemic and bland, simply begging to be colored. Laying the blade flat against my arm, I glanced at my reflection in the silver. I despised my face, and at that moment I could see why only my brother loved me, why it took so much pain to be loved.
I lifted the blade onto its edge, pressing it hard. I felt the warmness, a heat which intensified, for a moment, into an agonizing burn. Pulling the knife away, I watched the red bloom out, swelling, and dripping, drop by drop, onto the tile. Here we go; I counted the drops as the fell. One...two...three...I grinned in satisfaction. With every drop, I hated myself less, hated Frank and Columbia less, loved my brother more. Seven...eight...it was such a beautiful deep red, pooling onto the floor; I soaked it up with a towel, and watched it stain the towel, spreading out like an unfurling flag. Nine...ten...eleven... He would be angry when he noticed the scars traveling across my arms. There was no way to hide them, anything that could be covered in clothing would be revealed in his presence. I could only hope he would miss them, pass them over with his fingers, his lips. Twelve...thirteen...
I rinsed off the knife, threw away the towel, and, licking the last drops off my arm, climbed the stairs to bed.
AN: I don't know why, but I'm including the Tori Amos song for which this chapter is named:
*~* Blood Roses *~*
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
Back on the street now.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
Back on the street now.
Can't forget the things you never said.
On days like these gets me thinking.
When chickens get a taste of your meat.
When chickens get a taste of your meat, yes.
You gave him your blood
and your warm little diamond.
He likes killing you after you're dead.
You think I'm a queer.
I think you're a queer.
I think you're a queer.
Said I think you're a queer.
And I shaved every place where you been.
I shaved every place where you been, yes.
God knows, I know I've thrown away those graces.
God knows, I've thrown away those graces.
God knows, I know I've thrown away those graces.
The Belle of New Orleans tried to show me
once how to tango.
Wrapped around your feet
wrapped around like good little roses.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
back on the street now.
Blood Roses
Blood Roses
back on the street now, now, now,
now you've cut out the flute
from the throat of the loon.
At least when you cry now,
he can't even hear you.
When chickens get a taste of your meat
Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on,
when sucks you deep.
Sometimes you're nothing but meat.
