!!warning!!
If you are not comfortable with blood, self harm, or depression, please do not read this prologue! I do not want to disturb anyone or cause them to think this is okay! Please if you are thinking about self harm please contact me! If you are not comfortable with this please skip, it is not that important!

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My blood trickled down the side of my arm. I couldn't distinguish my feelings towards it. I clinched the knife in my right hand and held my left out in front of me. I made my hand form a fist around the cut and watched through squinted eyes the blood pool around my feet.

On one side of my brain I felt the need to stop. I felt the pain and knew what I was doing was wrong. After everything I have been through I knew if she found out, she would be upset. She would be more then upset, she would blame herself for my actions. It pains me to know she would feel like that if she knew, but she wouldn't find out.

On the other side of my brain I couldn't help it. It didn't feel good not even in the slightest, but somewhere inside my head it felt almost soothing. I knew I deserved this, I deserved so much worse. The blood drops fell one by one, and I wanted to take the knife and cut and cut and not stop. I wanted to but I wouldn't. Somewhere inside me I enjoyed this, I enjoyed to see the pink skin, and warm blood smear across the cut. It wasn't like it was calming but more a habit I couldn't quit. My hand became almost numb, and tingles spread where the cut was. This was my favorite part. The part where I almost couldn't feel my hand but I could still feel the blood, and even the knife as I slit one more smaller cut.

I set the knife down and held my wrist in my right hand and let the blood just drop to the floor. It was my blood, and at that thought it made it almost a hundred times better. I wanted the pain, I wanted the tingles, hell I even wanted to do it over and over until I couldn't anymore.

I leaned my head against the bathroom door and slid down to the ground. I brought my bloodied hand up to my face and sighed into it. I rubbed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair, stressed at what I have done.

I could feel the blood smear on to my face and into my hair, and I would be a liar if I didn't say I didn't love the feeling.

No matter how many times I told myself it wasn't right, it was wrong, or how much I didn't enjoy it, I would always end up in this spot. With blood on the floor, and nothing to regret.

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