She looked at the scars on her wrists.
From the night her mother left.
"Blood."
She said the word and smiled.
Bleeding, if she cut them again she would bleed.
"And die," she screamed, "And hopefully die."
This time she wouldn't just try, she'd do it. She was sick of living, sick of everything. And she was tired. She just wanted to sleep.
Raising the knife, she studied her warped reflection in the blade.
"My saviour," she whispered, closing her eyes and pressing the blade into her hand.
When she opened her eyes again, there was blood seeping from her palm, dripping from her hand to a puddle at her feet.
Death.
The word seemed so peaceful, so serene.
And this time it would be guaranteed. Not like the last time. She'd survived last time. This time was the end. There would be no more trying after tonight.
She reached for the pills beside her on the table.
The girl had told her two would do.
She popped four into her bleeding palm.
Placing her hand over her mouth, she tipped them into her mouth and swallowed them with the blood pooling in her cupped hand.
Then she handled the knife again.
In a methodic motion, she slid it into the white flesh of her wrist, pulling slowly.
Breathing nervously, she watched as the blood trickled down her arm.
She raised the knife again, Bringing it down in a sweeping motion, she stopped just before it made contact with her uncut wrist. Then she plunged it into her arm, engraving her wrist with a broken heart.
Glaring at the image angrily, she slashed across it a few times, trying to blur the depiction.
The knife clattered to the floor.
She didn't remember dropping it.
Holding her hands out in front of her with her palms facing the ceiling, she studied her wounds with awe.
The blood flooded from her, falling softly to the floor.
Then the door opened.
"No!" she cried, "Go away, leave me alone!"
Her vision became blotchy, black spots appearing everywhere.
"What are you doing Sarah?" came his voice.
Then she fell to the floor, and all the colours faded into blackness.
* * * * * *
From the night her mother left.
"Blood."
She said the word and smiled.
Bleeding, if she cut them again she would bleed.
"And die," she screamed, "And hopefully die."
This time she wouldn't just try, she'd do it. She was sick of living, sick of everything. And she was tired. She just wanted to sleep.
Raising the knife, she studied her warped reflection in the blade.
"My saviour," she whispered, closing her eyes and pressing the blade into her hand.
When she opened her eyes again, there was blood seeping from her palm, dripping from her hand to a puddle at her feet.
Death.
The word seemed so peaceful, so serene.
And this time it would be guaranteed. Not like the last time. She'd survived last time. This time was the end. There would be no more trying after tonight.
She reached for the pills beside her on the table.
The girl had told her two would do.
She popped four into her bleeding palm.
Placing her hand over her mouth, she tipped them into her mouth and swallowed them with the blood pooling in her cupped hand.
Then she handled the knife again.
In a methodic motion, she slid it into the white flesh of her wrist, pulling slowly.
Breathing nervously, she watched as the blood trickled down her arm.
She raised the knife again, Bringing it down in a sweeping motion, she stopped just before it made contact with her uncut wrist. Then she plunged it into her arm, engraving her wrist with a broken heart.
Glaring at the image angrily, she slashed across it a few times, trying to blur the depiction.
The knife clattered to the floor.
She didn't remember dropping it.
Holding her hands out in front of her with her palms facing the ceiling, she studied her wounds with awe.
The blood flooded from her, falling softly to the floor.
Then the door opened.
"No!" she cried, "Go away, leave me alone!"
Her vision became blotchy, black spots appearing everywhere.
"What are you doing Sarah?" came his voice.
Then she fell to the floor, and all the colours faded into blackness.
* * * * * *