Once again...the poems are mine...
Meredith looks around the empty hotel room. Derek is at practice. Derek will be at practice for a little while longer. That gives her time. That gives her enough time. She walks towards her en suite bathroom. A bathroom that is covered in white marble and stainless steel. Clean. Cold. Perfect.
Meredith sits down on the toilet and rests her left arm against her leg, wrist facing up. She runs the sharp edge of the razor lightly over her finger, testing its sharpness and reveling in the sensation of the smooth, sharp metal running across her finger.
She yearns for the release. She yearns for the comfort of physical pain. She years to turn her emotional pain into something physical. Something she can diagnose. Something she can see. Something that can heal. She wants to see her blood. She wants to see her blood dripping onto the cold, hard, white tiles of the clean bathroom. She wants to see her red blood splattered on the clean white, just the way she saw her mother's blood all over the white bed spread when she discovered her cold, dead body that had been brutally murdered.
Nobody knew. Nobody knows. Nobody knows that Meredith Grey is a cutter. Nobody. One more aspect in her life in which she is alone. A part of her wants someone to find out. She wants someone to find out so that they can save her. She needs someone to save her. Nobody asked her about the bandages that have sporadically covered her arms since the time she was fourteen. Nobody knew. Nobody knows. Nobody cares.
She grips the razor blade firmly and slides it smoothly across her wrist. Slicing. Releasing. Finally breathing. The cut is perfect, almost surgical. It is diagonal so as to avoid any major damage. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't deserve to die. She deserves to suffer. She waits in anticipation for the first drops of blood to rise to the surface.
A salty tear escapes from her eye and lands on the cut, causing it to burn. The burn feels so good. The pain feels so good. It lets her know that she is alive. That her numbness, her numbness is only emotional. She finally sees the blood. The sweet, precious red blood that travels from her heart and through her arteries. Her blood. Her life.
My tears mix with the blood that is
dripping from my freshly cut wrists.
My heart is turning black as hatred
for myself and others fill its voids.
My blood is emptying out of my veins
into pools on the floor.
Everything around me is ugly
And nobody cares that I'm slowly dying.
She leans her head against the wall as the blood continues to collect in a puddle on the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sounds of the dripping lull her into a daze, somewhere between dreaming and waking. Somewhere nice. Somewhere warm.
She doesn't want to stop the bleeding. She is afraid that if she stops the bleeding, she will stop the existing. She will stop the being. She will stop. She will die. She feels a certain lightness floating around her. It carries her away up into the clouds and she looks down at her pathetic form. Her pathetic, crying form.
She drops to the floor of the bathroom, a white towel clutched in her grip, ready to stop the bleeding whenever she chooses. She can stop it. She holds that power. Her. Meredith. She controls her own life. She controls the fact that right now, at this moment, her blood has turned the once stark white bathroom floor into a mess of red.
She is lying in her own blood, spreading it even more, polluting the cleanness, the purity of the bathroom. The blood stains her once immaculate clothing, but she doesn't care. It is sticky and warm as it collects around her hair follicles. Sticky. Warm. Blood. Her eyelids are heavy and she is tired. Her eyelids are heavy and she is so tired. She knows that now is the time to stop the bleeding. She knows that now is the time to apply the towel to the wound, but somehow, the wound now seems to deep, the cut too fresh.
She thought that she didn't want to die. She doesn't think that she doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to die. She just has lost the will to live. She has lost the will to fight the uphill battle that has plagued her for most of her young life.
So, Meredith Grey closes her eyes. She is still aware of her surroundings. She is still somewhat awake, but slowly dying, slowly bleeding out from the wound inflicted over a short lifetime. Slowly she is ceasing to become Meredith Grey. Slowly, Meredith Grey is fading into the shadow that she felt like she became the morning that she found her mother dead. Slowly, Meredith Grey is dying as she waits for someone to save her.
Blood stained sheets surround me.
No one cares.
I am alone.
Just like I always have been.
No one cares.
I don't know how much longer I can continue.
No one cares.
I'm sorry.
No one cares.
I'm just so tired.
No one cares.
I can't fight for something as useless as my life anymore.
And no one cares.
Sorry to add all the drama...but you will see that it has a purpose...thanks for all of your reviews...
-Marci