She sits on the counter, one leg folded beneath her, the other bent, foot resting against the wall. Her head leans against her knee, and in her right hand is a razor. Her left arm is stretched out over the sink, blood falling from her wrist. In the next room, her laptop is open, playing music she is only half listening to.

She is not visibly crying; in fact, her face bears a peaceful expression. She might not be happy, but none could argue she is not calm. Slowly, she raises her right hand, regarding her other wrist for a few moments patiently. The, quickly, she makes two quick slices, watching the blood rise to the surface, rolling down her wrist, falling into the sink, joining the blood already there. She puts the blade to her mouth to clear it of blood, the sharp edge cutting her lip open slightly, and then wiping the blade on her pants. Gently, her tongue probes the small cut on her upper lip.

Upstairs, she can hear the noise of a party. There is food, and laughter, and company there, but no one she wants to be with right now. No one she wants to talk to. Shaking her wrist, her mind fogs, the release of blood, tension, and tears through her wrist allowing her to relax. A slight smile forms on her face, and she is almost beautiful there, in that moment of calm and peace and relaxation. Her eyes close involuntarily, and her mind descends into quiet slumber.

When she opens her eyes again, she is cramped, and the razor has fallen from her grasp. It rests in the sink, on top of the blood still there, some of which has dried. Her wrist has stopped bleeding, but is a mess, dried blood and cuts making it look as if she has lost a fight with Edward Scissorhands. She is no longer beautiful; her exhaustion has gotten the best of her, and she sighs, slowly maneuvering herself to the point that she is standing. Twisting her wrist, she winces, the too-tight skin held in place by the blood.

She runs the water, cleaning the sink and her wrist, and then puts the razor into a tissue, then the trash. She grabs some toilet paper, and wraps it around her wrist, half-heartedly taking it off again when she sees it turn red. She presses more toilet paper to her skin, and then wraps it again. She wearily wanders out of the bathroom and into her bed, falling onto it. She barely manages to get under the covers before sleep claims her again.

a/n: credit for the title goes to the Goo Goo Dolls' song Iris. if you know the chorus you can probably figure out why i chose that song for this