The red blood leaked from the wound, and she pressed her lips against it. Her tongue flicked out, and caught the tiny drop before it dried. She savored the taste; that was all it was, really. A taste. It didn’t taste as her favorite writers had claimed, tastes of copper and salt, but perhaps she didn’t have enough. It was a bit salty, a bit sweet, too… cool on her tongue, but if there was one thing she’d learned from her biology class that year, it was that skin was not a thermometer. She thought idly that that would probably apply to tongues, too.
She’d cut herself before, intentionally, and by accident. But never with such a sense of purpose and right. A small thought pressed against the back of her mind, one of the next morning. She’d have to find a way to cover the cuts up. She was not going to let it become a ploy for attention. She wasn’t that pathetic, at least not in her own mind. But she pushed the thought back, and cut a bit deeper into her arm. The blood had stopped flowing.
It had been a hard night. Early on, she’d been fine. Her best friend called, they talked for a bit. It was fine. She didn’t want to not be talking. After her friend went, she made a call. It was a mistake. The guy she called, the boy who occupied her dreams, was a friend, not an overly close friend, but a friend. But in that conversation, she began to suspect that he didn’t even want to be friends with her. He obviously didn’t return her interest, but that was hardly surprising. No one ever did. No one ever wanted to be ‘more than friends,’ not with her. She didn’t really understand that. She thought she was an interesting person, and people said she was pretty or attractive, but she was either too much a friend or too much a freak to capture their interest. That hurt far too much. But it was the final call that broke her, that made her pull out the knife. When she answered the phone, the voice on the other end of the line was her ex-boyfriend, the boy she’d thought she loved, and a person she still cared deeply for. He was depressed, and she had always been far too empathetic to his moods. They talked of the end of the world. It seemed far too likely that night, with the threat of war looming in the world. It was a favorite topic for her. But it brought her further down, and led to a conversation about suicide. They tried to figure out what ways would be most effective, and most painless. They didn’t come up with much. And then he had to go, so he could sleep, and she was left alone and lonely. He’d reminded her of that; loneliness. He brought back all the pain she’d felt when they were ‘together,’ miles apart, a relationship held through phone lines. That had been the only reason they hadn’t stayed together, and that hurt.
It was late, and there was no one she could talk to. After she hung up the phone, she curled up on the floor, feeling like she wanted to die, hoping the world would end. It didn’t happen, and she was feeling worse and worse. So she put her favorite CD in, and found her knife. It took her a while, to work up the self-hatred necessary to do that to herself, but not too long. It was always there, though she’d set it aside. It had been nearly a month since she’d cut last, and she’d survived some difficult days. But as always, the pain had built up, and she hit a low, and had no choice. She wasn’t cutting for death; she was cutting to survive. The pain kept out the truly dangerous thoughts, the ones that would make her suicidal again. She didn’t want to go that low. She wouldn’t kill herself, couldn’t kill herself. That was a value constant in her life. Suicide was wrong. It hurt too many people. As long as she had one person who cared about her in the world, she wouldn’t do it. Hurting her family and friends wasn’t something she was willing to do. That was the one thing she believed even when everything else was gone. But some nights it got hard, and on those nights she needed the knife. The knife only hurt her; no one else cared.
Her thoughts returned to the present, and she put down the knife. Her arm looked bad, this time. Three deep cuts, eight lighter ones. She’d need cold weather for the next few days, or she’d be awfully warm in a long sleeved shirt. She knew if people saw the cuts, they’d be angry. She didn’t understand why; everyone partook in some kind of self-destructive behavior. Drinking, drugs, eating disorders, self-loathing: few people she knew where very healthy, either emotionally or physically. This was no worse; it just showed up more on the outside. It wouldn’t have long lasting effects on her, unless one day she cut too deep. She’d never do that. She wouldn’t allow it. She was just as fine as anyone.