You stare at the crisscross of scars on your pale white arms and cringe, knowing you are about to add yet another to the many that already lace your limbs. A razor poised above the arm, you press down and close your eyes, dragging it across, pressing, deeper, deeper, deeper. It doesn't hurt anymore. You haven't felt the pain – physical, that is – for years now, but you don't mind. It is still a release, still an outlet for the constant ache you feel in your heart, your being. You purge your body of the nuance of emotional pain, you purge yourself of the food you so seldom intake, you purge your soul of the guilt.
You stare at the razor, gleaming as it catches light from the open window in the corner. For a moment, you see your reflection in the steel, your eyes a black to match your soul, hair falling limply to curtain your face, cheekbones protruding rudely from underneath your gray flesh. You no longer feel human, and you no longer look it.
Determined now, you once again raise your weapon, this time holding it above the wrist. You trace the path of veins with your finger for a moment before picking up the trail with the razor. You watch, transfixed, as you spill your life source, your poison, staining the denim of your jeans, as well as the purity of your soul.
And in the morning, the paper will read, "One more suicide."
She stares in the mirror, tears welling up behind her large, blue eyes, so long devoid of their childhood innocence. Rolling up her sleeve, she cringes at the latest set of bruises and scars. The abuse, the torture, it is seemingly never-ending. She doesn't understand why they hurt her, why they cut her, hit her, and starve her. What has she done to deserve it? She is just a child, after all, trying so hard to please, to win over her abuser.
Suddenly she feels a presence behind her and she shudders, knowing what is about to happen. The woman stands over her, raising the girl's arm, and slashes it with a razor, not stopping until she's spilled enough blood. It no longer hurts the child, as she has grown so used to it over the years.
The woman, now satisfied, leaves her alone again in the room, and the girl stares in the mirror, crying silent tears at what she sees reflected in the glass. She no longer carries the body of a little girl, all that is left is the frail, thin, frame, ribs protruding, stomach nonexistent. She has been starved, neglected, and she doesn't know why. She has done nothing to deserve such torture, yet it continues, the woman unrelenting in her abuse.
She hears footsteps fast approaching and all too soon, the woman stands above her again, looking down on her disapprovingly. She grabs the girl's arm, lazily tracing a finger from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. She gives an almost bitter smile before once again picking up the razor and slashing the child one final time.
And in the morning, the paper will read, "One more murder."