She runs the blade across her skin.

Once.

Twice.

The blood rises to the surface, but only lingers in minute drops sitting atop the raised welts. She smiles, and drags the knife again across her arm. Always horizontal, never vertical. She doesn’t want to accidentally kill herself, after all; she just wants the feeling, the sensation. She wants to know what its like to feel again. What its like to cry.

Today is her 21st birthday. With no one to share it with, she decides to have a celebration of her own. One cut for every year. The blade moves again, silver on cream. Silver on red. She’s up to six, now, the sixth a little deeper than the others. A drop of blood escapes, creating a crimson trail that drops to the floor.

/I’m sorry, but I have to leave, now. Remember, Daddy loves you. Be a good girl for Mommy./

The choking feeling in her chest is diminishing as the warmth behind her eyes and nose rises. No tears show as of yet, but she knows its coming. She closes her eyes, relishing the feeling.

Seven.

Eight.

/THIS will TEACH you NOT to get into FIGHTS at SCHOOL! How do YOU like to be hit in the FACE, huh?! STOP CRYING! I haven’t even BEGUN to give you something to CRY about. /

Her face stings with a phantom pain as the tears begin to fall. She presses harder on the blade.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

/Here, have another drink./

/No, I think I’m fine. I should be going home, now. /

/No. Stay. Please? I know you’re lonely. We can be friends./

The blood is running freely from her arm. There is a small puddle forming at her feet. It’s almost in the shape of a heart. She chuckles at the irony.

Thirteen

/Smoke this; it’ll make the pain go away./

/You ungrateful little shit!/

/It will make it stop? /

/You’re the cause of the HELL that we live in!/

/I promise; it will make everything ok./

It’s refreshing to cry. It’s a way for the body to heal its self from emotional pain. It’s giving her a small headache, and her eyes sting, but its refreshing none the less.

Fourteen.

/Please, I want to go home./

/But the party hasn’t even gotten started yet! What’s your hurry? /

/I don’t feel good, I need to go home. /

/You can lie down in here, no one will bother you./

/Wha…what are you doing?/

/Shut up, slut./

/Stop! It hurts!/

/I TOLD you to SHUT UP! /

/Please…/

/Heh. Thanks, sweetheart, I think that was the best I've ever had. Here. Don’t spend it all in one place./

Blood is flowing from her lip, now, where she bit it to contain a whimper. The last one was extra deep. It causes her lower arm to be slick with blood. She moves the knife to her bicep, undaunted.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

/You should be grateful that I took you in! Your mother never wanted you, why do you think she was so quick to send you to me./

/You’re lying./

/And how do you repay me? By turning out just as worthless as she was./

Her cuts are deeper the farther she goes into her mind. She doesn’t even notice what she’s doing, anymore. All she wants is the pain. The release. Her mind is muddled as if she is just about to reach orgasm.

Seventeen.

/I love you, you know that./

/I know, but… /

/I love you, I would never hurt you. I promise./

/…Alright./

Four more and it will be over. She will have achieved her goal. She smiles at the thought.

Eighteen.

/I’m trying to push you so far to the edge that you fall off. You’re the biggest regret that I have. /

Nineteen.

/I want nothing to do with you. All you are is a disappointment. You’re going to end up just like your mother: nothing. /

Twenty.

Twenty one.

She closes her eyes and lets the knife fall to the floor. Her blood is already beginning to dry on the blade. It looks as if it were colored with crayon. Her arm has turned from cream to crimson, the floor from light blue to a bruised purple. She breaths in deeply, waiting for the sensations to stop, to become numb again.

After a few seconds, minutes, hours, she rises from her position on the bathroom floor and runs water over her wounds. She winces from the pain. The need for it is gone from her system, and now she would like to get it over with as fast as possible. She pats her arm dry and wraps it in gauze.

Wetting a paper-towel, she wipes the floor, and then her knife. She leaves the bathroom, placing the knife back onto its spot on her dresser, and tosses the towel in the trash. She lights the candle that sits in the middle of the cake that she made for herself that afternoon. Chocolate. Her favorite.

She sings to herself, thinks for a moment, and then makes a wish, blowing out the small flame.

/I wish I were whole./