Status: On hold
Infection
.8
That night, she cradles two flimsy silver blades in her hand, wrested from the plastic prison they’d originally been found in. They were small and almost harmless looking – but the smallest things can sometimes hurt the most.
She carves NO into her thigh, smiling as the scent of salt and desire swirled in her nose and the red branched out like watercolours. It stings like a cold fingernail picking apart the layers of skin, a burn laying just underneath the blood. I’ll make it scar, she tells herself. That way, if someone ever went that far again, they’d know she really means no, and it wouldn’t be her fault. It wouldn’t be her fault – please, please, believe it wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t.
The inside of the bath is cool on her bare skin as she crumples, chubby legs tangled together in a knot, fists twisted into a language of pain. She turns on the water and lets her choked sobs conceal themselves in a disguise of everyday activities.
She carves NO into her thigh, smiling as the scent of salt and desire swirled in her nose and the red branched out like watercolours. It stings like a cold fingernail picking apart the layers of skin, a burn laying just underneath the blood. I’ll make it scar, she tells herself. That way, if someone ever went that far again, they’d know she really means no, and it wouldn’t be her fault. It wouldn’t be her fault – please, please, believe it wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t.
The inside of the bath is cool on her bare skin as she crumples, chubby legs tangled together in a knot, fists twisted into a language of pain. She turns on the water and lets her choked sobs conceal themselves in a disguise of everyday activities.