01
__________
"drip"

DRIP.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

The blood pearls splattered onto the bathroom sink, but she did not notice. Her eyes remained transfixed on her reflection in the mirror.

People would say she was beautiful. She was strong and she was smart. She was a girl no one should worry about. Why would they? She always smiled.

Except for behind closed doors.

Now, her face was without any hint of a smile. In fact her lips curled slightly downwards when she relaxed. Her eyes were vividly blue and bright, but still as she looked in the mirror, the layer of darkness did not go unnoticed. The black came as a stunning contrast to the different nuances of blue that filled out her irises.

She saw it just as clear as she saw the sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The tormented blackness of her soul which was right there on display, but still no one looked her in the eyes long enough to realize her demons.

If they did they would see her battles, her scars, and the never-ending clawing at her soul.

They say you might lose the battle but win the war, however as her hands tightened on the bathroom sink, she was worried she would not win the war.

Because how can you win a war over the demons that are created by yourself?

How can you win over the dark shadows that are there for a reason?

She grabbed tightly onto her bleeding wrist, not because it hurt, but for it to feel of something.

Anything.

She wanted the sensation of the stinging by severed skin. She wanted the ache reminding her that there was pain greater than what she felt on the inside.

The blade had helped her for a while, but as the months passed she came to realize it did not do her any good anymore.

The pain had stopped.

And so she picked up the blade again.

She trailed the razor blade over a new spot of untouched skin hoping this time the stinging would come.

Her gaze stayed on the cut, drinking in how the blood spilled from her wrist in drops which hurriedly made their way down her arm.

Reaching all the way to her elbow before they let themselves fall.

Drip.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Onto the bathroom sink.

The blood merged together with the leftover water in the sink, making an intriguing delicate pattern as it flowed its way down the drain. 

Mesmerized, she traced her finger over the crooked line of blood on her arm, getting enough of the red substance on the pad of her finger. Then she raised it over the sink watching hypnotically as a small droplet made the journey from her finger into the sink.

Drip.

She did it again.

Drip.

Drip.

She let out a sigh as that too became plain and boring. Her eyes once again returned to look at herself in the mirror.

Who would think that a girl with a face like an angel would battle demons more cruel than those from imaginary outlets?

A hint of stupidity washed over her causing a wrinkle to show on her forehead as her brows furrowed into a frown, tugging her lips further downwards. Shaking her head, she opened the tap and put her hands and arms in under the cold fuse of water, washing away any trace of her childish actions.

They were childish. Marks showing the words she could not express otherwise. It was not that she wanted to die, because if she did she would have already done it. She knew one right cut could end it all, but she never placed a cut that way. Why then, did she keep cutting? She just wanted to feel pain - pain with a sensible reason, not caused by those turmoiling thoughts that fogged up her mind, making her hitch for breath.

She let the water run until the blood stopped turning it red. Then she grabbed the dark colored towel and gently wiped the newly inflicted cuts.

There it was.

The stinging sensation she wanted. She let out a moan of gratitude, taking a moment to indulge in the physical pain.

Then it disappeared again, just as soon as it had arrived. 

Hanging the towel back on the rag, she went back into her room and pulled out another one of her huge black colored long-sleeved shirts. She always wore dark colors which made it impossible for others to see the blood that might stain her shirt.

Her mom had been pestering about buying some bright colors for years, but never got further than a light pair of washed-out jeans. Not that she ever took her mom shopping.

She never took anyone.

Why would she even want to dress in colorful clothes when her mind no longer appreciated the wide color spectrum?

A thought occurred to her of how true it was that colors could portray and foreshadow moods.

Still though, not many seemed to realize that, because then maybe they would notice how she dressed like her soul - black, plain and full of an agonizing void.

The clues were all there, just like in the different illuminated poems of William Blake. The only difference being that she could not form the words. She never could.

She only devoured them hoping for them to bring her sanctuary. However, the sanctuary seemed futile as it never lasted long.

Nothing ever did, except for her demons which were always there lurking right in the growing shadows of her mind. All of them ready to pounce. They never slept. They bid their time whispering in the silence. They were never impatient as they knew their mere presence was enough to eventually eradicate every blissful thought she might conjure.

Sadly, those thoughts had become limited and she had sought peace in drowning out the voices with words of others whether they be from books or songs underlined by a steady beat that filled the otherwise deadly silent room.

Her room was usually never quiet because she knew in those quiet moments the demons started whispering again until they were not just whispering anymore. They whispered until they started talking, coaxing her to listen.

However, she did not want to listen.

She could not listen to them anymore.

Because if she did, they would consume her and she feared she might not have the will to fight them this time.

__________

A/N: let me again just emphasize that I do not encourage self-harm. But speaking from experience a lot of people who battle with depression yearns for some kind of outlet that reminds them that there is pain greater the one that tears apart their insides, hence resulting in cutting.

Are you one who battles with this, but feels uncomfortable speaking about it? I'm sorry for what you must be going through. There is no easy cure. It's a long road to recovery but if you see this and admit this is you, then you're already on your way. Half the battle is acknowledging your demons. So keep fighting.