AN: To all you kiddies out there in Rocky land: don't start cutting. It
leaves nasty scars on your arms (or legs), and in the long run, it's not
good for you. Ok, I've done my public service; do I get to go to heaven
now? No? Well, how about purgatory? ALL RIGHT!!!!
The bleeding continued, day after day, late at night, I bled again. If he noticed, he mentioned nothing. I fell in love with the blood that flowed from me, bringing myself to cut deeper and deeper into myself, bringing up more. I always did it in the kitchen, not wanting to mess up any of the wooden floors.
With every drop of blood, my mind was able to release another fear, another thought weighing down my spirit. They would return later, accumulating through the day, but for that small bit of time, I felt unhindered by the chronic clenching of my heart that I suffered through the rest of the day.
I cut the same places each day, so as not to let the scars multiply. It became more painful every time I reopened the wound, and, in a way, more satisfying. The knife became stained a rusty color, painted with my blood, my beautiful blood. I hid it away, so no curious eyes would find it, eyebrows knitting at its curious color.
Every day I would cut deeper, trying to dig through to something, as a child would try to dig to the other side of the globe. I wanted to reach the purity I once had. It seems ages had past since I last understood innocence, and truly, I had been so young when I had been sent off to Frank, and that was taken away, subtly, without me noticing.
After a month, or more, tears mixed with the blood. I was so tired, so frustrated with myself. The blood was beautiful, but it wasn't solving anything. I cut deeper and deeper, making desperate stabs. I wasn't sure what I needed to get out. The pain intensified, and as the tears and blood combined on the floor, I finally collapsed into it.
The world exploded as I plummeted into that pool. Like the dream I had once experienced, it was burning, but as my skin blistered and peeled off, I was not my mother as before, but a monster, so grotesque, and to me, it seemed the epitome of treachery. Without seeing it, I envisioned traitorous acts, not only to Frank, but more painful, more painful than the burning, to Riff.
Riff was on his knees on the kitchen floor, his hand on my back. My shoulders were heaving, I had been sobbing, and the household had been roused. Columbia and Frank lingered at the doorway, and, oddly enough, the milkman. Riff pulled me up and lead me to bed. As we passed by Columbia, I saw she was holding my knife, unsure what to do with it.
AN: Yes another Tori Amos title, so if I do that again, no point in pointing it out, I noticed.
The bleeding continued, day after day, late at night, I bled again. If he noticed, he mentioned nothing. I fell in love with the blood that flowed from me, bringing myself to cut deeper and deeper into myself, bringing up more. I always did it in the kitchen, not wanting to mess up any of the wooden floors.
With every drop of blood, my mind was able to release another fear, another thought weighing down my spirit. They would return later, accumulating through the day, but for that small bit of time, I felt unhindered by the chronic clenching of my heart that I suffered through the rest of the day.
I cut the same places each day, so as not to let the scars multiply. It became more painful every time I reopened the wound, and, in a way, more satisfying. The knife became stained a rusty color, painted with my blood, my beautiful blood. I hid it away, so no curious eyes would find it, eyebrows knitting at its curious color.
Every day I would cut deeper, trying to dig through to something, as a child would try to dig to the other side of the globe. I wanted to reach the purity I once had. It seems ages had past since I last understood innocence, and truly, I had been so young when I had been sent off to Frank, and that was taken away, subtly, without me noticing.
After a month, or more, tears mixed with the blood. I was so tired, so frustrated with myself. The blood was beautiful, but it wasn't solving anything. I cut deeper and deeper, making desperate stabs. I wasn't sure what I needed to get out. The pain intensified, and as the tears and blood combined on the floor, I finally collapsed into it.
The world exploded as I plummeted into that pool. Like the dream I had once experienced, it was burning, but as my skin blistered and peeled off, I was not my mother as before, but a monster, so grotesque, and to me, it seemed the epitome of treachery. Without seeing it, I envisioned traitorous acts, not only to Frank, but more painful, more painful than the burning, to Riff.
Riff was on his knees on the kitchen floor, his hand on my back. My shoulders were heaving, I had been sobbing, and the household had been roused. Columbia and Frank lingered at the doorway, and, oddly enough, the milkman. Riff pulled me up and lead me to bed. As we passed by Columbia, I saw she was holding my knife, unsure what to do with it.
AN: Yes another Tori Amos title, so if I do that again, no point in pointing it out, I noticed.
