A/N: One of those spur of the moment fics, where the only thing that happens is your put your hands on a keyboard and a story appears. I know, I know- another weird oneshot, but please review and tell me what you think. I'd like to improve. Feel free to critize- I can take criticism pretty well, I think.
WARNINGS: Self mutilation. That's it, folks.
A Wonderful Life
No one would understand why she felt the way she did. She had a wonderful life- a wonderful upbringing; the only dark spot would be her father leaving, but she had barely known him, and didn't miss his presence in her life. She had a terrific little sister, and a loving mother. Even her step family wasn't bad- excluding Derek. Nothing could really be attributed to the empty, dark hole in her heart.
It was her. She was the dark spot, the only thing that left her curled in her bed at night, staining her pillow with tears she shouldn't have needed to cry. She was selfish, shallow, self absorbed. People had life's far worse then hers, and yet she sat in the bath, a razor to her arm and her teeth clamped on her lower lip to stop the cries. She had no reason to shed her own blood, but she was; bright red painted her pale arms in a terrible, taunting fashion. No one to blame except herself. She shouldn't be naked, shivering from the cold air with splatters of red surrounding her, closing her in.
She shouldn't.
But she was.
She had a seemingly perfect life- hell, her life was perfect. She was teased at school, yes, but most of it had stopped and she had a best friend and a house and clothes and everything you needed to be happy. Nothing that would cause you to create a mosaic of crimson on the tiles of your bathroom floor, your arm swollen and sliced. She had no reason, no right to do what she did.
She had no right.
She wouldn't worry people with her sordid feelings and her horrible habit. She would clean the bathroom, scrubbing the linoleum until her fingers were wrinkled and the rags were soaked through with blood. She would look at the bathroom floor, the bathroom floor that she soiled with her needless blood and dumb, selfish acts, and cry. Wiping the tears with the back of her forearm did nothing... they returned, dripping into a puddle before her, mixing with the faint remains of blood.
Tears and blood. How poetic.
She sat and relentlessly cleaned until all evidence was gone, no reminders of her stupidity remaining- besides her arms that were throbbing in pain and irritation. She stared at them, mesmerized. The cuts were shallow, she knew, but they were deep enough to cause blood and to look painful and disgusting.
She looked disgusting.
So when she went back to her room, she would hide the cuts underneath long sleeves and smile her perfect smile for her perfect life. She would fight with Derek, watch over Marti, and listen to her mother and George. She would achieve wonderful grades in school, and encourage her best friend to get over her senseless crush on her annoying, repulsive step-brother.
She would do all of this with a razor hidden in a compact in her purse, calling to her when she collapsed again, unable to keep up the facade of perfection. It called, sang, beckoned with it's seductive cold metal and the promise of pain to dull the hurt in her heart. And she would go back to the razor, the one thing that wasn't perfect and in that imperfection was the one thing that kept Casey from breaking down.
And still- she had no right.