Slutgarden

Frankie’s POV

I turned away from Derek, staring at the wall. Tears began to slightly well up in my eyes, and I fought them back, not wanting to let him see me cry. How could he not have came like I had? That was easily one of the best times we’d ever had sex, and he didn’t cum. It didn’t make sense. After him being in rehab so long I expected him to not last as long as he usually did, but ironically he didn’t get off.

It worried me. Was it something I did? What if he wasn’t attracted to me anymore? What if he didn’t love me anymore? It would make sense, for him to be unable to cum because of his lack of love for me. But even worse, if he didn’t find me attractive anymore, he was bound to leave me. My stomach clenched up at the thought of it, and I looked over to see if my lover was sleeping, which he was. I moseyed my way into him and pulled his arm around me and he held me in tight. If he was to leave me, I don’t know what I would do. Derek was mine, and he always would be. Nothing could ever change that, I wouldn’t let anything change it.

But the thoughts kept creeping into my mind, and definitely were not going to allow sleep for me anytime soon. I got up, being careful not to disturb him from his sleep, and walked over to his desk, sliding the drawer open. I dug around until I found a baggie of Valiums and popped several and crawled back into bed, hoping sleep would wash over me soon.

*

Harley’s POV

I took a seat on the couch and looked around, looking for Alexx, Aimee, or Alecia. Neither of them were anywhere to be found. Alexx and Aimee went off to talk to someone, and Alecia never returned. I had nobody to talk to, and I was in a crowded room, alone.

Sure, it was my own house. But it still made anxiety rise up in me. It was almost like I wasn’t being seen or noticed by anyone in the room, that everyone was oblivious to me. Like I was nobody. Nothing.

And that’s all I was. Nobody. Nothing. Nothing that should be acknowledged or cared for. I was a speck of dirt on the perfect, clean white sheet that was the world.

My self-doubting and demeaning thoughts began to overcome the anxiety, almost sending me to tears. I remained on the couch, looking around with my brown eyes that were probably shiny with tears that wished to escape and showed a sense of panic, loneliness, sadness, and a silent plead for someone to sit down beside me and maybe even strike up a conversation. I twitched my foot nervously until I couldn’t take it anymore, and I quickly got up and hurried into the downstairs bathroom, locking myself within.

The music was muffled through the door, and I paced in the small room, pushing my black hair out of my face and looking up at the ceiling, letting my tears run free.

Why was I being forced to continue to walk this Earth? Why couldn’t something horrible happen to me so I wouldn’t be forced to continue to go through this? God knows I couldn’t bring that upon myself because I was too much of a fucking pussy.

I felt myself collapse to the floor, leaning against the bath tub, sobbing. I tried to keep my sobs quiet so nobody that could possibly be on the other side of the door would hear me and rush in, thinking they had to “save” me. I pulled my knees in tight to my chest, letting my tears soak into the grey material of my leggings.

I looked up at the ceiling yet again and breathed in deep, standing up and opening the medicine cabinet. I searched through the items within, searching for the treasure I was longing for.

I finally found it, and my fingers gripped onto the lilac plastic, my other hand grabbing onto the other end, and I began to twist and bend the plastic in every which way, waiting for the relieving snap that meant my state of desperation would soon be to an end.

The plastic refused to snap, and I began to grow aggravated. The room felt as if it had gone up ten degrees, and I felt myself begin to sweat, when suddenly the snap rung out and I exhaled the breath I had been holding in. Grabbing a pair of hair shears from the same cabinet I had retrieved the razor from, I began to cut at the razor head, watching the plastic break away to reveal the several sharp blades within, and they began to fall out into the sink.

I picked up the sharpest looking one, and rolled up my lace sleeve to reveal several red, inflamed lacerations on my arms. Taking a deep breath, I ran the blade across my skin quickly with applied pressure, and a scarlet horizontal line appeared, blood spilling onto my skin. I did it again and again and again, I didn’t want to stop. The blood was hitting the white porcelain of the sink, and my eyes were closed and I was facing up at the ceiling yet again. It was almost pure ecstasy, it felt as if my emotions were running out along with the life force I was spilling.

The warm crimson liquid began to dry on my skin and I stopped momentarily, looking at what I had done. I had cuts adorning the inside of my left forearm in every direction. Horizontal, diagonal, vertical. Crooked, straight. Deep, shallow. Some even crossed over the older incisions, which bled more than the rest. As twisted as it was; the sight pleased me immensely. Maybe to other cutters, it created a sense of shame, anguish. But to me, it was victory. I had overcome another one of my breakdowns on my own without any outside help. I did good.

Sighing quietly, I turned on the sink and ran my arm under cool water, stinging a bit. The way I cut was vehement. Almost like a musician plays music, I cut. I cut with almost pure passion, and it was almost scary. I turned the faucet and watched the last bits of water spiral down the drain and pulled my sleeve over my arm and looked in the mirror, wiping away the run down mascara.

Returning to the party, a sense of relief washed over me. I pushed my way through the crowd with pure suavity, confidence. But nobody would know what it took.