Title: To Face The Day

Author: Ayakaishi Fei

E-mail: Ken_Dai_Love@hotmail.com

Rating: PG-13-R

Category: Angst, Pain.

Warnings: Self-harm.

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- harm.


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 my eyes.

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 control.

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 again.

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 piece, y'know?

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.

Please review?