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And it’s not like I’m doing any real damage. It’s about the release—the power of the moment. And it’s about the healing—the relief that comes with hitting the metaphorical reset button the second I lift the blade from my arm. The pain and the itch as it scabs over. The pride that comes when it fades into a pale white scar.
And that’s if it even scars at all. Most don’t.
But I prefer it when they do, even if it means risking someone finding out. Scarring shows I won, even if my victory remains only between me and that voice in my head—the one that’s done far, far worse to my insides over the years.
If they could see into my brain, feel what I feel, I think they’d understand…
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I pinch the unlit joint from between my lips, and tuck it behind my ear, pushing my hair back too in the process.
Plopping back on my ass, I set the tin box down next to me, plant my sock-clad feet on the tile, legs bent loosely in front of me. I use my teeth to pull up my sleeve, revealing my slim pale wrist. I used to wear chunky bracelets or armbands, but it’s been so long since I needed to. Only if you look close enough, will you find evidence of past wars waged.
I blow a piece of blond hair out of my eyes, and turn my wrist up.
Gently, carefully, I pluck the razor out of the box, and bring it sharp-side down to my wrist, just under the heel of my palm.
Steering clear of the pale blue veins branching under too-thin skin, I go for a more cushiony spot, and inhale deeply, before releasing at the same time I press down hard enough to break skin.
Not too deep, not too deep, I chant inwardly, watching a drop of ruby red blood bubble up, just as I start dragging it slowly across my skin, millimeter by millimeter.
A little bit more…
Just enough for the sting to register.
Just enough to be almost too much.
A cottony feeling, not unlike what I get from smoking weed, fills my head. My tongue pokes out, trailing over my bottom lip.
There, that thing inside me purrs. Momentarily satisfied.
My lashes flutter. I could moan from the relief, it feels that good. Not so much the small cut itself, but the familiar fantasy playing out in my head—the one where I imagine my skin hissing with the give of pressure, the inky black smoke of that disease inside me curling up into the air. It’s been so lon?—
The door opens.
I yelp, flinching, nicking myself deeper than I normally would. Pain flares—a jolt of sharp, hot heat racing up my arm, but I barely give it any notice in my mad scramble.
“Get out!” I’m shouting in a panic, clambering to a stand, shoving my sleeve down.
“What the fuck?” a shaky voice breathes from the doorway leading into Izzy’s room.
I fumble for the tin box, quickly drop the razor back inside, and snap it closed. “Get out!”
In my haste, it goes tumbling out of my hand. And while it remains closed, I watch with horror as it skids right across the room. As if Mason Wyatt suddenly turned into fucking Magneto, it shoots right for the toe of his black Vans planted just past the threshold.
A short, hysterical laugh bursts out of me. Eyes wide and unblinking, my mouth fumbles for something to say—preferably some magic spell to rewind time.
Fuck my life.
Shoulders slumped, my arms hanging lifelessly at my sides, clenched fists hidden under long black baggy sleeves.
I can feel wet, sticky warmth trickling down my wrist, collecting in the palm of my left hand, flooding the valleys and grooves of my skin, my nail beds…
With unfocused eyes and numb resignation, I watch as Mason slowly, so slowly, bends down, and picks up the mint container.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but there’s no weight to it. He’s already opening it, with deft, long piano fingers.
His face is downcast—light ashy brown hair curling over his brow, hiding his eyes from me. All I can make out is the sharpened edge of his jaw, made to look even sharper—more terrifying—by the shadows closing in on him from behind.
The silence is deafening, broken up only by the muffled sound of “Tears Don’t Fall” by Bullet For My Valentine playing from my room, vibrating the door behind me.
