I lay on the ice-cold tiles, trembles racing through my body. My eyes were closed tight, and I didn't want to open them. Opening them meant facing reality, it meant acknowledging what had just happened. I much preferred laying there in sweet, ignorant oblivion, pretending it was all a dream. Unfortunately, ignorance can only go so far. I slowly opened my weary eyes, staring at the ceiling. I made an attempt to stand, but pain coursed jaggedly through my abdomen, causing me to moan and collapse to the floor once again. Fuck. Slower this time, I pushed myself up cautiously, and gripped onto the counter, clinging to it and using it to heave myself up. Once upright, I held still and tried to assess the damage. My stomach was the worst, shooting white-hot agony through me with my every movement, even the slighest shift in weight. The side of my face also stung, and I got the impression that I would need some serious concealer in the morning. I also had a bruised ankle, I must have twisted it or something when I fell. I pulled in a deep breath, told myself to suck it up, and headed for the stairs. By the fourth step, I was on all fours, and had to painfully endure the remainder of the steps at a crawl. Once I got that strenuous task out of the way, I used the banister at the top to pull myself to my feet, and staggered to my bedroom. I sank exhaustedly onto my bed, lying on my side and curling up in fetal position. I cried my heart out, face crushed into my fluffy pillow, my salty tears soaking through it. His last words echoed unavoidably through my skull. Fat, ugly, weird, worthless. The words hurt more than his blows had done. Heedless of my pain, I rushed over to my wardrobe door, pulling away the black fabric I had hung over the mirror to avoid seeing myself. I stared at my battered reflection, and I knew he had spoken the truth. I was all of those things. My face was disgusting, sallow and pale with ridiculously wide brown eyes, a fat nose and lips that looked too big for the rest of my features. As for my figure, I could barely look at it. I was just so huge. Fat hung off me everywhere possible, rolling with my every move. I lifted my shirt, and some part of me noted the blossoming bruises patterning my skin. The rest of me was fixated on the shape of my stomach, how it hung and wobbled when I shifted, how horribly fat I looked. No wonder no-one gives a shit about me, I thought. Look at the state of me. Sobs shook me so hard I collapsed in a heap on my floor. I gripped my sides, digging my nails hard enough to draw blood, pulling, wishing I could rip away all the fat on my body. I hated this, hated my body, hated myself. I'm such a bitch, a self-centred, unlovable bitch. My own mum and dad left me lying in a hospital bed. She gave birth, then they walked out and never looked back. Even then, they knew. They knew I was a worthless piece of shit, right from the start. They didn't feel the need to bother. Hate, hate, hate. I hate myself. I sat there a while longer, I'm not sure how long, it could have been a second or an hour. But eventually I dragged myself up and searched for the only release I knew. I went to my drawers, and pulled out a small purse. I opened it, and for a moment I just stared at It's content. A number of shiny blades, ranging in all different sizes, clinking delicately together. Taken from razors, pencil sharpeners, the occasional stanley knife when I was fortunate. Today, that last type was what I went for. A cruel, thin, long blade, glinting in the dim light, just begging to be put to use, I pressed it against my skin, feeling the first tear of skin of my forearm. Blood welled, trickling down my arm, and I watched it, mesmerized. I dragged the blade, slowly, watching the line of red appear and slowly begin to drip. I sped up then, eager for more. The pain was sharp, cutting through my confused brain, holding my attention and letting everything else fade away. I soon had a number of red lines, running neatly down my arm, pouring tiny, thin rivers of my blood. I watched them, watched the blood gather and fall in small droplets, feeling the delicious pain erase everything else. The fresh cuts sat on a background of darkened scars, hundreds of them, criss-crossing and forming a dark, twisted pattern on my skin. I stared, feeling like a complete freak for my masochistic habit, but unable to lose my sinister addiction.

Notes

This chapter was hard to write. I really wanted to capture the feelings and thoughts behind cutting, but it's difficult to put into words, and since everyone cuts for different reasons, it was tough. Thoughts? Come on, I wanna know what people think!!! Xxx