A hazy ray of light spilled onto the marble floor from behind closed bathroom doors, ever brighter against the overwhelming darkness. Shadows moved within, soundless footfalls of a single occupant. Dahlia had locked herself inside the bathroom, her sanctuary, with nothing but a razor for company. She held the blade gingerly between two fingers. And if she shut her eyes and listened past the silence of a world asleep, she could almost hear the blood rushing through her veins. Despite the warmth of her rosy flesh, this piece of sharpened metal and its cool indifference seemed friendlier still. Dahlia, she was held prisoner in her own skin; smothered beneath layers of jaded eyes and old scars.

Maybe it was the insomnia. Loneliness was often made worse by the ungodly hours of the night. Alone in that bathroom crouched wearily over the toilet and razor in hand, she could've sworn she was the last person left. Life was cruel in the sense that it rarely afforded her the sweet, albeit short, release that was sleep. The longer she remained conscious, the more disappointing the waking world seemed. The blade roused what little life was left in her. When the pain engulfed her, it pierced the numbness that severed her from the rest of humanity. She had to feel something; otherwise she'd rot from the inside. And then there’d be no stopping her demons from taking over.

It was poised just before her flesh, barely scraping the surface. Dahlia’s eyes drifted over to the other wounds that had scarred over in time. Identical streaks strewn across her arm, the remnants of nights similar to this. The memory of them lingered briefly before giving way to the task at hand. This was far from being her initial attempt, but Dahlia still hesitated every time as if it were the first.

Too late did she realize that she must’ve hit an artery; blood spewed forth relentlessly as soon as she pushed down on the razor. It trickled down her arm in a thin line that dripped to a growing pool on the bathroom floor. Up close, it was really more black than red, she thought. The sight of blood, so obscenely unnatural against the white tiles, left a sick, empty feeling at the bottom of her stomach. Only now did the horror begin to sink in. She didn’t mean for this to happen. Her mouth hung open, but she couldn’t bring herself to cry out. If she were to fall asleep now, it would be one from which she’d never wake.

Peering into the crimson pool, Dahlia looked onto a gaping abyss. The reflection that stared back at her was not her own, yet she found it startlingly familiar. It was one that held the truth of her ugliness. Dahlia wanted to turn away, but couldn’t tear her gaze from it. The world, for all its faults, did not shape her. They say everything is made clear just before one dies. That shallow puddle of blood stripped everything else away and exposed Dahlia for who she was. There was only a hideousness that was sadly transparent. Bare inside, nothing underneath. She was only a wraith of a person

Oh, but it was just so much easier to blame the rest of the world for that. She couldn’t do that anymore.

Dahlia felt faint. Perhaps it was the weight of the revelation. Or the blood loss. It didn’t much matter at this point. The straight razor fell from her fingers; she no longer had the strength to sustain her grip on it. Darkness edged in on the corners of her vision. Still, her eyes roamed to where the razor lay and gazed upon it with some degree of bitterness.

As the oblivion slowly descended upon her, Dahlia thought she felt an unfamiliar pair of hands weigh down on her shoulders. And a hoarse, otherworldly whisper that made the very marrow in her bones quiver. The demons. Her demons. They’d come.

In a terror that was beyond anything else she knew, they felt like home.