Sacred
005
The darkness envelopes me with its cool embrace, caresses the desolate plains of my body and soul. It out of bounds now, uninhabitable. My hand trembles as I roll up my left sleeve, revealing dozens of thin pink lines along my lower arm, some whitened with time. The tears may have dried up, but my blood never will.
Beside me on the floor is a box, and even before I open it I know what I will see. White softness and jarring steel. Tissues and blades.
Slowly, tenderly, I take some tissues and place them under my arm. I pick up a blade. It glints tauntingly in the moonlight that floods through the bathroom window, as if daring me to continue. It knows I won’t walk away without another scar to add to my collection. Resting the razor on an unmarked area of skin, I steady my breathing. I know that I’ll feel stupid tomorrow; every cut is the same. Still, it helps, even if the effect is only temporary.
Three.
Two.
One.
I press down, wincing. The throbbing of my wrist instantly dulls the searing ache inside. Closing my eyes, I sigh.
The tissues soak up the crimson blood trickling off my arm. I wipe the wound carefully, and wash the blade. I feel calm, serene. There’s nothing to say, just watch the water spiral down the drain - a bit like my life.
“To me you’ll be forever sacred...” The words escape my lips without warning, a painful reminder of the past. Of Cal. I shake my head - I won’t lose myself in memories again. Not now. Not ever.
Staggering out of the bathroom and back into my bedroom I sense an eerie tinge to the silence of the sleeping house. Sleep... My bed has never looked so inviting. The minute my head hits the soft cushiness of the pillows I sway on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness, dreams and reality. I pull the duvet high over my head and, like the nights before, I feel the same bitter cold unusually soft on my skin. As I finally reach the gates to oblivion, a familiar melodic voice whispers in my ear:
“It wasn’t your fault...”
And a pair of soft icy lips presses into the hollow of my throat...
Beside me on the floor is a box, and even before I open it I know what I will see. White softness and jarring steel. Tissues and blades.
Slowly, tenderly, I take some tissues and place them under my arm. I pick up a blade. It glints tauntingly in the moonlight that floods through the bathroom window, as if daring me to continue. It knows I won’t walk away without another scar to add to my collection. Resting the razor on an unmarked area of skin, I steady my breathing. I know that I’ll feel stupid tomorrow; every cut is the same. Still, it helps, even if the effect is only temporary.
Three.
Two.
One.
I press down, wincing. The throbbing of my wrist instantly dulls the searing ache inside. Closing my eyes, I sigh.
The tissues soak up the crimson blood trickling off my arm. I wipe the wound carefully, and wash the blade. I feel calm, serene. There’s nothing to say, just watch the water spiral down the drain - a bit like my life.
“To me you’ll be forever sacred...” The words escape my lips without warning, a painful reminder of the past. Of Cal. I shake my head - I won’t lose myself in memories again. Not now. Not ever.
Staggering out of the bathroom and back into my bedroom I sense an eerie tinge to the silence of the sleeping house. Sleep... My bed has never looked so inviting. The minute my head hits the soft cushiness of the pillows I sway on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness, dreams and reality. I pull the duvet high over my head and, like the nights before, I feel the same bitter cold unusually soft on my skin. As I finally reach the gates to oblivion, a familiar melodic voice whispers in my ear:
“It wasn’t your fault...”
And a pair of soft icy lips presses into the hollow of my throat...
♠ ♠ ♠
;D All finished! I'm now open to suggestions about continuing this story. Yeah? Or no? Comments as usual ;)