Day 1 had been easy. She was made of steel, no blade would touch her. Day 2… a little less. But her will was firm, she would not give in. Day 3 was the longest day. Surely, things would only get better from here. But Day 4 was worse. And so was Day 5. By Day 6, Anna's thoughts were being cut apart by the images of blades that danced in her mind. There was no escaping it. And now, Day 7. The blades were no longer images. They were real.
Anna sat cross-legged in the dim hotel room, the little light there was reflected in the metallic shapes that now sat before her. She rested her throbbing head against the soft down comforter of the bed, the plush carpeting cradling her legs—but all she could think about was what the cold metal would feel like against her skin. Her fingers fumbled for one of the blades. It felt cool, calm. In an open palm, rested against her arm, the blade glinted. She could smell it, taste it, even. In all honesty, she hardly felt her fingers pick up the blade, and she hardly felt it when she felt its slender edge gliding across the scars from past cuts. Then, as though she had heard a gunshot, she flung the blade across the room, and grabbed her wrist with a cry.
"What am I doing?" she murmured to no one. Her breath was quick, her mind was suddenly running in a million different directions. "Why do I want to do this? What is it that brought me here?" her voice crescendoed with each word.
It's simple, her mind hummed. You want to cut because you know that it will take all this away. Whatever it is that brought you here to this point, cutting will make it all better… She covered her face with her hands and paced to the other side of the room. Besides Anna… you want this. You've wanted it for a long time. And now that you've started again, you can't expect to stop in a blink of an eye. At the very least, feed your hunger now, don't let yourself starve.
She bent down and picked up the blade. Maybe just one more cut. Maybe that's all it will take to pull me away from this… Suddenly, she became a living paradox. She wanted to cut more than anything in the world, and more than anything she wanted to resist the urge. She wanted to run, she wanted to stay, she wanted to bleed, she wanted to cry, she wanted to feel, and yet she was so, so afraid. The razor's edge caressed her skin now—her heart begged her to press a little harder, and her mind was following suit now.
With a silent scarlet eruption, everything around her drifted away. The blood was real, it was all she needed.
And then she could smell the familiar scent of the hotel room. She heard a lawn-mower outside, and all felt right again. She glanced around the room, and back to her arm, just in time to see a deep red pool spilling down the side of her arm. With her other hand, she caught the stream, transfixed by the sight of her own blood. She silently entered to the bathroom, took a damp washcloth, and held it tightly to her arm as she returned to her spot on the floor, her back against the bed.
Her eyes closed, and she didn't know what to think. Every emotion that had been raging through her the past seven days was still surging through her veins--deep down, she felt every bit of it. But on the surface, she kept her eyes shut tightly, and felt nothing at all.