Warning: this chapter will have graphic cutting and suicide. You can skip over this and you won't miss anything.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
The cool blade runs slowly but deeply through my skin. I revel in the sting, gracious to feel something other than numb. Blood rushes out of the line going from my wrist to my elbow. I'm not worried about it. It's giving me what I want. What I need.
My fingers start to shake as I switch hands and do the same to my other arm. It's kind of pretty, actually. The crimson red running down my skinny, pale arms in smooth lines, dotting my floor initially. A pool starts to form under me, collecting my life's essence into one place.
I play with the blade, drawing crossing lines across my forearms and making the blood flow faster.
"So pretty," I whisper. My head feels fuzzy and my eyes are drooping, but I want to draw more. My arms are my canvas now. After so many years of not being able to draw anything, I can finally do it.
My hands begin to shake too much and I drop my blade on the floor. My head falls back and my body sags against my mattress.