d o w n w a r d s p i r a l
Chapter Three.
Man - that's gotta hurt.
I'm in my en-suite - the highlight of staying at one of Quatres' safehouses: some semblance of privacy - staring at my appearance.
And it does. Hurt, that is.
Getting hit twice in an hour is... well, put it this way: if I was on a mission it'd be wicked - really impressive - ninmu kanryou - type thing. However, being in a house full of my (supposed) friends kinda puts a different spin on things.
My hand reaches out for my blades.
An automatic reaction really. Like when you instantly drop something that's too hot; or pull a gun on someone if they sneak up on you; or - in Trowa's case - throw a mean right hook at them. The guy didn't mean it though, he even apologised (it speaks!), it's just a natural reaction.
Well, it's a natural reaction if you're a trained killer, anyway.
How ugly are bruises? Sprawling black, purple, blue, green, yellow...
Yuk.
But cuts... exquisite.
I say the word out loud as I sink the blade: deep into the pale of my forearm:
"Exquisite."
I like the word: the way it tastes in my mouth.
Sharp.
I cut, and the world is reduced to the moment - reduced to the now: the edge of the razor blade moving smoothly over skin... so I don't notice when I can no longer hear the others clearly, chatting in the kitchen; or when the steady dripping of the cold tap becomes muffled.
Everything sounds so far way.
The blood is flowing freely: frequently spotting Quatres' nice mahogany floorboards.
Far, far away.
A tinge of panic as my vision fades.
Then calm.
The floor rushes up to meet me.
And before the darkness becomes complete, I wonder how deep a cut has to be to constitute as 'too deep'?
***************************************************
Come on guys: write a review - You know you want to.....
PS - This is not the end, OK?
Chapter Three.
Man - that's gotta hurt.
I'm in my en-suite - the highlight of staying at one of Quatres' safehouses: some semblance of privacy - staring at my appearance.
And it does. Hurt, that is.
Getting hit twice in an hour is... well, put it this way: if I was on a mission it'd be wicked - really impressive - ninmu kanryou - type thing. However, being in a house full of my (supposed) friends kinda puts a different spin on things.
My hand reaches out for my blades.
An automatic reaction really. Like when you instantly drop something that's too hot; or pull a gun on someone if they sneak up on you; or - in Trowa's case - throw a mean right hook at them. The guy didn't mean it though, he even apologised (it speaks!), it's just a natural reaction.
Well, it's a natural reaction if you're a trained killer, anyway.
How ugly are bruises? Sprawling black, purple, blue, green, yellow...
Yuk.
But cuts... exquisite.
I say the word out loud as I sink the blade: deep into the pale of my forearm:
"Exquisite."
I like the word: the way it tastes in my mouth.
Sharp.
I cut, and the world is reduced to the moment - reduced to the now: the edge of the razor blade moving smoothly over skin... so I don't notice when I can no longer hear the others clearly, chatting in the kitchen; or when the steady dripping of the cold tap becomes muffled.
Everything sounds so far way.
The blood is flowing freely: frequently spotting Quatres' nice mahogany floorboards.
Far, far away.
A tinge of panic as my vision fades.
Then calm.
The floor rushes up to meet me.
And before the darkness becomes complete, I wonder how deep a cut has to be to constitute as 'too deep'?
***************************************************
Come on guys: write a review - You know you want to.....
PS - This is not the end, OK?