Author's Note: I seem to have connected to a lot of people with the first part of this, and so I wrote a second. Put this anywhere from her third mistake to her fifth - it wasn't placed purposely anywhere.
This may seem a little... graphic, and I'm sure that it's descriptive, but that's because I was sort of narrating myself last night, so it's from real life. I'm sorry if I offend anyone, or if anyone's upset because of this.
She laid there, the small knife she had "borrowed" from the kitchens in her equally small hand, fitting perfectly in her grasp, the weight giving her a small comfort while the blade glinted menacingly in the dull light. Moving the cold metal to the pale, scarred skin on her inner arm, she wondered if it had really come to this, that she needed the sharp pain of the cold, stolen blade in order to attain any sort of comfort.
After another moment's hesitation, she pressed it with some force into her arm and sliced, watching the crease form where she moved the blade, knowing that if she cut the same spot too many times again, or if she pressed too hard, the thin crease would be replaced with a line of blood. Blood was messy, she knew, and damn near impossible to clean up – she was careful to never draw blood.
Gently scraping the sharp edge of the knife along her arm, she felt for the almost-gone scars, knowing that opening up old wounds hurt more than creating new ones.
She gasped in pain and relief.
She looked down at the fresh crisscrossing marks on her arm, and vaguely tried to recall what had happened to do this to her, when if had gotten this bad. A face, and a name to go along with it, came to mind, but, slicing at another old mark, she decided that it really didn't matter; what's done was done, no matter the motivation. And there was certainly no going back now.
She remembered, when she had just started on her path of self-destruction, the freshness, the sharpness of the pain, how she had bit down on the inside of her lip and cheeks to stop herself from crying out, the sharp intake of breath when she couldn't stop herself, when the pain was unexpectedly magnified by hitting a sensitive spot on her arm, or by accidentally cutting deeper than she had intended. Oh, how she longed for that feeling again, the actual pain, instead of this dull stinging that was little more than irritating, and the now-swollen white and red crisscrossing lines that were the sole evidence of her activities.
She set her knife down and ran a single finger, very slowly, down her arm, counting the lines, admiring their elegant beauty and substance. She almost laughed at herself then – sensible as she used to be, as she usually was, admiring the scars that had caused her such pain to create, and even more pain to want to create. But she didn't laugh – her mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile, but the use of these facial muscles brought tears to her eyes like no amount of self-inflicted pain could.
There were nine marks, she counted, nine swollen lines that, if left alone, would soon fade into faint scab-like glimpses of former pain and an ongoing inner struggle for peace.
Suddenly, she decided that nine was an insensible number. Tilting her hand as far back as she could to flex the muscle on her arm and enhance the pain, she picked up her knife and cut once more, this time in a fresh spot nearer her elbow, where the gap between marks was larger than usual.
She brought the knife up off of her skin, checking the painful crease on her arm. She set it back on her skin, moving the edge slightly to make sure she had it in the right place, and cut again. She closed her eyes, relishing the sharp stinging, before checking the mark again and going over the cut for a third time.
Once more, she ran a finger down the inside of her arm, barely feeling it with the nerves that had been numbed with weeks – months – worth of self-inflicted agony. There were ten now, ten perfect lines on the pale, fragile-looking, unfeeling skin. Ten is a much more sensible number than nine, she though as she carefully slipped the knife under her mattress for the next night's use and went to sleep.
