Shaking.
Everything is too much. Building. Jumble. Thoughts too fast, too confusing, too hard to process. Before I can sort one out another is flying in.
Run down the hall. Find razors. Two. A long sharp one and a shorter, duller one.
Bathroom, sit on the end of the closed toilet seat, perched like a bird. Roll down pants. The spiderwebbed, criss cross of disorganized scars on my left thigh. The right thigh is not for tonight. The right thigh is keloid scarred and purple. The left is pale, pink spiderwebs. It needs more damage.
The selection of the razor and the precise first line, thin and red, a determining moment. Leave it as a cat scratch or open it until gaping.
My hands shake and are cold and the world trembles. Everything is suddenly so calm and so silent, all focused on this.
My skin is so polite, so modest, giving away gently at the hiss of a blade.
Slash the same spot, over and over. deeper and deeper.
Nothing is better than this. Nothing. The delicate layers unfolding at my will. Slash, slash, slash, blot away the blood, slash, blot.
There is no pain any more, none of the owowowowfuck there used to be. There is numbness and intensity, hitched breath like ecstasy.
Kind, too trusting skin is split open. Wide and long and angry, staring back up at me like some sort of revenge.
I feel far away, but I can come back anytime I want this time. I feel that I can come back and the world would welcome me. I am floating.
Surrender of skin and flesh and body and mine. Sacrifice for redemption.
Then the spell is broken. My skin rebels, blood begins to spurt . Pulsating, bright red. I try blotting this away and it just revives itself, eating up my cloth in redness.
I am shaking like I can feel it leaving me. The possibilities spin. I either hit a blood vessel or a vein. Judging at the colour, a vein.
My head is dumb and I can’t remember the first aid I know. It takes a minute of staring, white flesh flooding crimson, to remember. Apply pressure with bandaging. Hold.
Rebellious blood soaks through the layers. I keep adding more.
bleedbleedbleedbleedbleed.
Everything is too much. Building. Jumble. Thoughts too fast, too confusing, too hard to process. Before I can sort one out another is flying in.
Run down the hall. Find razors. Two. A long sharp one and a shorter, duller one.
Bathroom, sit on the end of the closed toilet seat, perched like a bird. Roll down pants. The spiderwebbed, criss cross of disorganized scars on my left thigh. The right thigh is not for tonight. The right thigh is keloid scarred and purple. The left is pale, pink spiderwebs. It needs more damage.
The selection of the razor and the precise first line, thin and red, a determining moment. Leave it as a cat scratch or open it until gaping.
My hands shake and are cold and the world trembles. Everything is suddenly so calm and so silent, all focused on this.
My skin is so polite, so modest, giving away gently at the hiss of a blade.
Slash the same spot, over and over. deeper and deeper.
Nothing is better than this. Nothing. The delicate layers unfolding at my will. Slash, slash, slash, blot away the blood, slash, blot.
There is no pain any more, none of the owowowowfuck there used to be. There is numbness and intensity, hitched breath like ecstasy.
Kind, too trusting skin is split open. Wide and long and angry, staring back up at me like some sort of revenge.
I feel far away, but I can come back anytime I want this time. I feel that I can come back and the world would welcome me. I am floating.
Surrender of skin and flesh and body and mine. Sacrifice for redemption.
Then the spell is broken. My skin rebels, blood begins to spurt . Pulsating, bright red. I try blotting this away and it just revives itself, eating up my cloth in redness.
I am shaking like I can feel it leaving me. The possibilities spin. I either hit a blood vessel or a vein. Judging at the colour, a vein.
My head is dumb and I can’t remember the first aid I know. It takes a minute of staring, white flesh flooding crimson, to remember. Apply pressure with bandaging. Hold.
Rebellious blood soaks through the layers. I keep adding more.
bleedbleedbleedbleedbleed.
- 1, left thigh. Single edge razorblade. 1/2 inch deep, 1 inch wide, 3.5 inches long. Bled for 2 hours.
- 1, left thigh. Paint scraper. 1/18 inch deep, 1/20 inch wide, 3 inchs long. Bled for 10 mins.
- 1, right thigh. Paint scraper. 1/25 inch deep, 1/25 inch wide, 2.5 inchs long. Bled for 5 mins.
There's no more blood now, two hours later. I don't feel dizzy, but I feel...insubstantial. Like I will float off on the breeze any moment and land somewhere far away. I feel almost guilty, but not.
I took pictures of the aftermath. The blades sitting on a neatly folded, stained cloth, blood sliding down the pale tile. The cut itself, while still bleeding and once it slowed.
It is still doing that weird spurt/pulsate thing every ten minutes or so in one of three spots, but is happening less and less and finally clotting.
I feel bad.
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