There is a grating sound, like a plastic rake dragged over a driveway, as the blade creeps across my skin still raw from the desert. It cuts. Again and again. The blood drips in a thick rivulet from the top of my shoulder down to my elbow. Drips onto the bathroom tile in a tidy red splash.
With dull eyes, I stare. And get lost.
You are one sick puppy, a voice says in my head.
I'm....I know I am, but maybe...maybe if I had help? Maybe if someone cared? Maybe I could stop, another voice argues meekly. ...Please.
And there is discordant laughter.
Minutes? Hours? A day? passes.
I come out of my catatonic state, and brush my hand over eyes, brimming with hot tears. All at once, its back again, in the usual overwhelming tide. The fear. The hurt. The chaos.
The pain.
I stir like a sleepwalker, and reach for the rubbing alcohol.
The breath hisses between my teeth, and I grimace with a cold fury as I scrub the congealed mess away, uncovering the fresh wounds again. They ooze once more, awakening. I hold them closed with one hand, and turn on the shower with the other. Awkwardly, I kick off my clothes.
And with my head hung low, eyes dry as water poured down my face, watching the pink rivulets wash off my body and into the drain.
Its a lot of pink.
Can’t keep doing this.
The laughter comes again, recognizing that age-old, false promise.
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