The bright yellow razor blade could be so endearing, so tempting, when the time was right. The gleam of it, touched by common white lamp, hanging on the ceiling, was calling her for the fifth time in this night. It was new, the blade. She just bought it from the local bookshop, another impulse-buying of useless stationary. She already had a pack of razor blade refills, safely kept in a white plastic box. But no, she thought when she saw the metal cutter. No, it was much easier when there was something to hold on to other than a sheet of tissue paper. At least she couldn’t hurt her finger–
–while hurting her hand, she continued in her thought, amusely.
She was at lost even when she hadn’t begun the war. It was her loss, she thought between her freezing hands, and in this kind of war, she would never win. It was a battle of an abstract, ghost-like thing. She didn’t even know whether it was real or not. She was fighting for a heart that would never beat for her, and thus she left before anything else could hurt her.
The sharp blade wiggled its eyes to her, telling her to just ditch everything and picked it up. And she did. She did for herself; for letting herself fall at the first place, for punishing herself at the falling.
The low sound of the fan was the only thing accompanied her tonight. The soft rattling sound soothed her, tying her down to reality. It was the wind that did so, though, grazing on her cuts so tenderly. Her hand felt numb. She could feel the dull ache that mingling somewhere on her left arm, but that was all. That was the only thing tying her to her room tonight.
No, she didn’t cry. It was her curse to cry over some kids cartoon, but not to her actual problems. No mattered what she did to her eyes, or her arm, she wouldn’t cry. It was these time when she actually begged, to whoever listened, that she needed to cry over her problem at least once. She heard that crying could calm you down for a moment, and she wanted to feel what it was like.
So she cut herself open. For fun, she said. The original intention was to make her cry at the pain, but, no, she couldn’t. Perhaps she needed to split her arm into two and broke two or three of her bones, and then, ta-dah, she would cry. Though there was a slight chance that she still wouldn’t cry.
It was her determination to live that made her smiling like nothing happened. Like all those cliché indie bands song titles, she was crushed inside. She had given up her heart to three people, and three of them broke her for good. The third one, though, cut her down really deep; it was forming a profound depth inside both of her heart and her brain.
She glanced at the red lines on her hand. They were beautiful; it was almost like a temporary tattoo.
a/n: title is from The Sam Willows’ song; All Time High