Cutting deep into the flesh of my wrist.

Sweet numbness.

Pain creeping up my arms,

Shiver with the ecstatic pain,

Closing my eyes,

Taking it all in,

Feeling the warm blood against my skin.

I sigh,

Continuing to drag the blade up my arm,

Nerves prickling with the jolting sting.

That pain never enough to make me stop.

I want more.

Almost-stifled giggles escape my lips,

At the thought of slicing... more and more.

Such a wonderful game.

My eyes dart over the walls,

Gently tilting my head to the side,

Feeling the blood crawling over the palms of my hands,

Sticky and warm.

Lovely taste,

In the blood...

I remember.

But nothing is as the feeling of the blade I have found so euphoric.

Again, I shiver.

The walls almost spin,

Seem to turn into mirrors,

That reflect nothing back,

But more silver,

More mirrors spewing images forth of what is behind these strange, reflective portals.

Then it is nothing.

Simply a wall.

My eyes gently ascend from staring at the blank wall, to my wrist where I have carved the pretty razor into myself...

Creating abstract pictures that I only understand.

Design of utter nothingness.

Nothing but blood and torn flesh.

A last resort...

That is now something amazing.

Slowly I fall against the softness and pull my knees up underneath my chin,

Thoughts making everything around me fall away.

The razor falls from the cushion of the sofa onto the hardwood floor.

For another day.