OH MAN—I feel AWEFUL for leaving you hanging for so long. Here, have a chapter!
Warning: This contains self-harm, drugs, and rape. Thought I should let you know.
2-D:
Your mind is screaming.
Your vision is blurry as you clutch the sheets around you and run desperately to anywhere you'll find clothes.
You feel dirty, disgusting, and worthless. As you reach the room, it is empty and you slowly walk in, legs shaky. Making your way into the bathroom, you pause only briefly to take a change of clothes from the dresser, not paying too much attention to the exact selection. Closing the bathroom door behind you, you make sure to turn the lock as to avoid any unwanted interruption. You turn to the cracked mirror on the medicine cabinet. Your skin looks flushed, tears staining your cheeks rudely. You reach out with a trembling hand, opening the creaky door, and finding a fresh razor blade, closing the tiny doors again and walking toward the tub. You let the sheets fall to the floor, and avoid looking at your body at all as you turn on the water, and step into the tub.
As the water fills the tub, you take the tiny, sharp blade, examining it in the dull light. It glints a lovely smile at you, beckoning with its mesmerizing beauty. Resting your arm against the side of the tub, you trace the intricate pattern of scars along you inner forearm. Some are raised; some are old, some fresh and still irritated. Taking the blade, you sigh, pressing its sharp edge into the skin. It cuts through the flesh like butter, burying itself deeper as you run it down and around in a steady motion. You are writing—much like a calligrapher—as the crimson liquid springs forth and begins to ooze lazily down your alabaster skin. First the "b" followed by the "o" and finally ending with the "y," you trail the blade around and around, leaving these angry red letters in its wake. You set the blade down on the edge of the tub, turning off the water as drops of crimson fluid fall into it, spreading their angry yet beautiful color as soon as contact is made with the water's surface. One drop, then another hits the water, staining it immediately. You press the palm of your hand against the fresh wound, smudging the blood around on your arm before allowing it to fall into the tub, a bloody pool spreading from its source into the surrounding water. The bleeding takes a while to slow down, as you watch the color overtake that of the normal bath water.
After a while, the water becomes grossly cold, and you stand up in the tub. You may not be that clean though, so you take some body wash, sloppily attempting to wash off – even if just a bit—rinsing off with some fresh water, and then stepping out of the tub. Undoing the plug, you watch the bloody water drain away slowly, as you take a fresh towel to dry off, not caring that year arm will stain it rudely, the blood eagerly sinking into the fibers. You put on your boxers, then your binding. It's become second nature to you, and it all happens too fast to dwell on it. Returning your attentions to your wrecked arm, you fish out some bandages from the medicine cabinet, wrapping them around and around, and securing the end in place with medical tape before slipping into your shirt, pants, and hoodie. You briefly glance at yourself in the mirror. There are visible bruises and bites littering your neck and jaw line, and you shudder visibly, turning off the light and shutting the door behind you.
You decide to go somewhere as worthless, disgusting, and desperate as you feel: the club.
You never go to clubs. Pubs, perhaps, but not clubs. The amount of unhealthy, dangerous shit that goes down in there simply terrifies you—or at least used to. But life couldn't get much worse, you decide, and disappear out the front door and into the cold dark streets of the town.
You can see your breath. Shoving your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket, you locate your pack of cigarettes and lighter, immediately plucking out one, and letting it hang on your lip as you put the pack away. Lifting the lighter up to its tip, you flick the tiny wheels as the little flame ignites. A couple puffs, and your cigarette is lit, the comforting nicotine-laced smoke filling your lungs and the surrounding air. You exhale a pained sigh as you make your way through dark streets. Litter lines the edges of the sidewalk, stray cats' eyes meeting yours as they flit around the rotting contents of trashcans, attempting to salvage those pieces of trash suitable for a less-than-scrumptious meal. The smell of gasoline, urine, and vomit tingles your nostrils, as you arrive at the tiny club, presenting your ID before entering. The bouncer doesn't give you a second glance and you enter the smoky doorway into the seizure-inducing neon lights brightening up the dance floor to spasmodic pulsating beats.
Every kind of person is here. As your eyes dart around the hazy room, it reeks of cigarettes and alcohol. The desperados slouch at the bar, staring dully at the remainders of their drink, while others are busy chatting up some stranger in hopes of a quick fling. On the dance floor, sweaty bodies contort into ridiculous motions attempting to attract or keep the attention of one already there. You saunter over to the bar, crushing your cigarette into the ashtray, as you order a shot of tequila. You are more than aware that the stuff fucks with you unbelievably, but tonight, you aren't giving too many fucks. You tilt the tiny glass back against your lips, downing it all in one go. Then another. And yet another.
Through slightly blurry eyes, someone appears to be talking to you. His voice sounds a bit distant, but you suspect that's just the alcohol kicking in hard. He's touching your arm, and you catch his eyes, smiling stupidly. He asks you something and you nod, even though you have no idea what he just said. He takes you by the arm, and you stumble off the bar stool, grabbing him awkwardly. Before you know it, you're in a puce-colored bathroom stall, paint chipping off the walls, graffiti littering the walls. Penises adorn the bricks, as do variations of insults, curses, and lewd language. The door of the stall is sort of hanging, but it locks weirdly, and the guy pulls out a small baggie filled with white powder. You don't really do drugs other than weed, but clearly, you aren't thinking straight. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe the depression. Maybe both. He gestures for you to hold out your arm, so you shove the sleeve up on the arm without any cuts. He fumbles with the tiny Ziploc a bit before opening it and pouring out some of the powder on your arm. He then produces a razor blade—an object friendly and familiar to you, and separates the powder into small rows on your arm, the blade nicking at your skin a bit, but you don't flinch really. He nods, and you lean your head down to snort up the first row quickly, then the second. You look up at him and he smiles, nodding again and gesturing to the last bit of powder, clinging to the skin of your arm. You snort it a bit too eagerly and feel something oozing from your nose. You wipe the same arm, still covered with remnants of the powder, across your nose, and stare at it. Blood. You're grinning a bit as the drug begins to kick in, and you feel his arm snake around your waist, pulling you toward him. He reeks of alcohol and vomit, but you're way too drunk to notice, and then your lips are crashed together in an awkward exchange of slobber. His arms reach to grab your ass as he grinds his hard on against you, and you're suddenly beginning to feel a bit jittery, yet weirdly…sleepy? You can feel something's happening, but you aren't sure what.
Your stomach turns and you instinctively turn to the toilet, vomiting up god knows what. That's when you feel him wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing your bodies together. You're breath heaves, and you can feel him unzipping your trousers and shoving your pants down as the cool air hits your bare skin. You're shaky on your legs and you begin to panic. He senses this and shoves several of his fingers into your mouth roughly. You gag as you feel him enter you from behind. The pain in sharp, and your eyes widen in terror as tears stream down your cheeks. You're too weak to scream. Maybe it's the odd concoction of drugs and alcohol.
And then nothing.
It's dark.
I don't know why I'm so mean to the characters .'' I promise this will get happier! Read and review~