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Stuck at a house you can’t escape from, you’ve been spending a few weeks here taking care of family, or rather giving them much needed help around the house. Your grandmother had surgery recently, and it was now up to you to push yourself to do all you can to make your family’s days easier.
Hard as it is, comfort is found in keeping yourself busy.. so when everything settles down for the night it comes crashing down on you. Fidgeting with a bracelet around your wrist you begin to dig into your skin, tiny harmless scratching, but as you begin to feel like a cornered dog with nowhere to hide you desperately grasp for any concept of escape. Then it hits you, the scars along your wrist, telling a tale of a battle fought, but still allowing you to reminisce on the control it had gave you. While grabbing your best friend and dicing yourself up once again wouldn’t be something you’d necessarily want.. yet it felt like the only choice you had, the only decision you could make for yourself, freedom. Soon you had snagged a pair of clothes to change into and headed off to shower, blade hidden within the cloths folds. You didn’t even bother to face the mirror, you knew how disheveled you had looked earlier, and you didn’t think your mental breakdown had changed anything for the better. Once stripped of all the bonds of clothing the shower steamed with your unsheathed blade in tow. Holding it up towards the falling water had allowed for it to glint against the light even as water fell against it all too serene. Hesitation hit you as the blade met your skin, it had been awhile.. is this- no it was the only way you could be in control of something, anything, pain was your pleasure—a blade against your skin of your own volition, blood pooling at the cut—it just was simply too alluring. It would burn, and it would be a wonderful subtle pain to keep you going the rest of the day without breaking down in such a humiliating manner like you have had done before. After a few more cuts you had found peace in spilling your own blood, it was yours after-all.. it certainly wasn’t the right thing to do but god did it make you feel so much better to have some sort of control over yourself. Soon shampoo covered your hair and you washed it out going about your normal shower routine, brushing your teeth, conditioning.. but most importantly washing your skin, it was nice to scrub over your fresh scars, maybe it was the right thing to do in order to heal… but it had caused you pain so it was all worth it wether or not it’d improve your wound’s condition. In the end you’d leave, dressed in sleeves and pants so no one would be able to question your reddened arms and thighs, you’d go about doing everything as usual; with a smile plastered on your face as if nothing had ever happened, yet you still found yourself wanting more. You so desperately want to be saved, but you refuse to be vulnerable for anyone ever again; but—dear god, having someone to care enough to kiss the same scars tracing your body, but no one had ever been so selfless to you before so.. why expect anything to change now?