Title: To Face The Day
Author: Ayakaishi Fei
Category: Angst, Pain.
Summary: // I've bled myself empty of emotion, and it feels good to be
empty// Sometimes it's easier not to feel anything. Short one-shot. Self-
The water is hot, scaldingly so, and the force of the needles turns my skin
from its usual shade of peach tinged white to a pink so dark it's almost
crimson red - the same colour as my blood.
I suppose my habit of standing in burning water is probably unhealthy, self-
destructive even, but I cannot bring myself to break such a comforting
routine, and it is not as if my addiction is truly harmful.
I let myself sink to the floor - the white tiles are cold against my
flushed skin, and my hair, loose around me, clings wetly to my exposed
skin. My heart pounds furiously against my ribs, throbbing out a rhythm
which makes me shiver, despite the boiling water. I'm scared - I've lost
control, lost control of everything.
I can't handle my own feelings - I can't handle the emotions he makes me
feel. It's wrong, it has to be wrong for me to feel like this. I've never
felt like this before.
The warm salty tears that escape from my eyes mix with the water that drips
onto my face through the curtain of my sopping hair.
My hands scrabble over the clean tile floor desperately, hot water on cold
tiles slowly warming them, they graze the plastic handle of my razor, and
an empty sort of pleasure, calm exhilaration, fills me. The razor is cheap
- nasty - but it's sharp, I know this much from experience.
The warm plastic rests against the soft skin of my upper thigh, a gentle
pressure, savoured, as it presses into the milky skin, painful even before
I break the skin. Feels so good.
The pure white of my skin is translucent; I can see the blue and violet
veins beneath the transparent surface. Beautiful. So pure. Not a single
scar mars the creamy skin of my thigh. It's been a long time since I lost
control like this. A long, long time.
A slow smirk-like smile, hesitant, yet at the same time sure, spreads over
my face. I'm beyond thinking now, nothing but me, me and the truth that I
see in my blade. My thoughts lie to me, but my razor gleams under the
florescent lighting in my bathroom, and reflects nothing but the truth in
I twitch the razor left, drawing the blade through my skin with less
thought than I give to towelling myself dry after a shower. My red-violet
blood wells out of the shallow cut. Not beautiful. I move the razor, still
empty, still confused, still frightened, still feeling. I cut again,
drawing the blade over the lily-white skin again, and again. I reopen the
shallow cut on my hip bone, before switching to the other thigh, never
cutting deep enough to scar. The shallow cuts hurt more anyway. I observe
my handiwork silently, my thighs painted with roses of blood.
I'm in control - I am in control. I did this. A mellow feeling of tainted
euphoria washes over me, as my mantra runs through my head - I am in
The water and blood mix, tracing the contours of my legs, dripping down to
paint the white tiles pink, just briefly and then the liquid disappears
down the drain, even as more of the blood wells up, only to be washed away
I watch enthralled, yet oddly detached. I did this. Me. Nobody else is
controlling me. I am the painter, the artist, the creator and destroyer.
Slowly I return to myself, tears long since washed away, blood still
welling as the water washes over it. I stand turning off the water, and
gathering my towel.
White towel stained like white tiles. Blood stains the material such a
pretty shade of red. I dress dreamily, reaching for the antiseptic cream
before I pull on my jeans. The tube is cold and the white cream colder. I
rub it between my fingers for a few seconds before running a single finger
over the still bleeding cut. The white cream turns pink too.
The pain is sharper when I disinfect my self-inflicted wounds, but I relish
the pain of cleaning them, just as I relished creating them. I feel
powerful - in control. I finish the task aptly, before pulling on my jeans.
The rough material brushes against my thighs, but I ignore the pain.
I feel like I've bled myself empty of emotion, and it feels good to be
empty. I'm finally ready to face the day.
Authors Note: Just a little introspective piece, which I doubt I will
continue. This was more to develop my use of description, and because I
really, really needed to write this. I'm kinda depressed at the moment, and
this is what came out. Anyway, I'd love to get a response. If anyone wants
me to write more, I guess I could, but I think it works as a stand alone
I just realised this is damn similar to "Lost Without You". That says
something about my "habits" doesn't it. I write this shit when I'm
depressed, but LWY has a plot, and this is more descriptive. Oh well. I'll
leave this here.