Tourniquet

Christine sat, sobbing, on the ground of the girl's bathroom, a small razorblade in the palm of her left hand. The sharp edge was a few centimeters away from her fingers, the sharp edge reflecting the lights above. She fought to regain her breath, her breathing shaky from crying so much. She knew everyone called her "emo" and "goth" behind her back, and they undoubtedly would, even when she was gone. She inhaled deeply, choking on her sobs, and trying to calm down for what she knew was coming. Someone banged on the locked door, shouting for entry.

She didn't acknowledge their presence and kept as silent as possible, not wanting anyone to find out about this. She placed her right hand over her mouth to stifle her crying and the hiccups it had caused. The person continued to bang on the door for a good three minutes. After she was almost positive they were gone she let her hand down, staring down at her two pale wrists, the skin shining more white in the pale lights above. They were empty, unmarred by any scars, like a blank canvas waiting for the paint. Her left hand tightened as she remembered why she was here in the first place, and she gave a small cry of shock as she felt the metal dig into her fingers. She dropped the razor to inspect the wounds, and it fell to the ground with a small clatter, the metal stained with her crimson blood.

She inhaled shakily. The pain in her fingers was subsiding, leaving her hand to go numb. Hesitantly, she picked the razor up again, and, trying not to cringe, pressed it against her forearm, wincing as she felt it break the skin. She pulled away the razor and watched the blood bead on her wrist, before finally dripping down in a small stream. She positioned the razor on the same spot where it had been, closed her eyes, and pressed down hard enough to once again break the skin. She applied the same amount of pressure to it as she started sliding it down her wrist, biting her tongue to stop herself from crying out in pain.

After a little while the pain had numbed and she looked down at her "masterpiece". Her pants were stained with her blood, the crimson liquid flowing out of her wrist still. It stretched from just below her important veins to her elbow. She blinked back the sudden fog that seemed to stretch in front of her vision and heard another person banging on the door again. This time, they called out for the door to be opened.

"Christine! Christine!" Someone yelled, their fists banging on the door, almost willing it to open. She didn't say anything, her attention down at her still bleeding wrist.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting a pure numbing sensation wash over her. Distantly, she thought she heard the click of the lock and the door bursting open. A loud gasp was soon followed by hurried footsteps. She felt herself being lifted into the air, but her eyes were still closed. Water dripped down onto her cheek as someone, a guy, yelled at another person. She heard the ripping of fabric, though it sounded so far away, and felt her arm being incased in something warm. More hurried footsteps and she felt herself being lifted onto something firm and set down gently. She struggled to open her eyes to see what was going on, but couldn't find the strength to. The pleasant numbing sensation was fading away now, replaced with pain. She winced as someone brushed her wrist on accident, sending pain spiking up her arm. She could hear people talking, but couldn't make out the words. In her subconscious mind, she replayed the day's events in her head, shivering slightly.

A large, burly man towered over Christine, a sickly smile plastered on his face. She had her mouth cupped over her hand, blood trickling out from a split lip. She kept her eyes down and bit down on her tongue as he kicked her hard in the stomach. Tears were brought to her eyes from the abuse but she did not cry out. He seemed to take pride in her tears and moved away from her. From the kitchen she heard her mother making coffee, paying no attention, ignoring the abuse that had just gone on. Why? Because she was afraid. She knew what her husband could do and would do to her should she do anything about it. It was "his right to punish the bitch as he saw fit" and "there was nothing some whore could do about it".

The fabric that had been pressed against her wrist was taken off and replaced by, what felt like, cotton. She could feel herself being picked up and laid back down, this time on something more comfy than before. She finally managed to open her eyes, and was greeted with the sight of a crying man. She could hardly make out who it was, and gave a very small smile when she recognized his features. It was her good friend, possibly her only one, Julian.

He turned to her and smiled, his features lighting up. She chuckled softly before her head lolled back and her eyes closed, for the last time. Her lips moved very slightly, mouthing the words, "I love you" before her breathing stopped entirely, her face draining of whatever little color had been left.

Julian turned away, hiding his face from the pale, lifeless body of Christine, tears finding their way down his face and onto the ground. He couldn't stand to think of her dead, not Christine. She had always been cheerful, a bit on the secretive and moody side, but always there with a small smile on, no matter the situation. Why would she have done this to herself, what possibly could have driven her to it? He knew her life at home was bad, but, could it really have been that bad? All that he knew about her family (she never had him over, they always stayed at his house) was that her father was harsh on his punishment, but could it have lead her to her suicide? He didn't want to find out, but knew that one day, he would. He turned back to her body, leaned over, and pressed a small kiss onto her pale forehead, before walking out of the nurse's office.