a/n: reposting because i do kinda like this one. the cutting is fairly graphic, you are warned.

8.14.11

The girl excuses herself from her group of friends and walks quickly to the bathroom, grabbing her backpack on the way. At this point, she doesn't care if she looks weird, taking her backpack to the bathroom when she'll be back here in five minutes anyway. She walks out the door and takes a left, covering the short distance to the bathroom in less time than if would have taken her if she wasn't about to cut. She forces herself to slow, trying to force her body to cooperate and let her mind tell it what to do. It doesn't work. She's long past the point of being able to force herself to calm down.

She reaches the bathroom and takes the biggest stall, the one made for people in wheelchairs and who have movement issues. She shuts the door, dropping her bag on the ground and slumping against the wall, closing her eyes for only a moment as she relishes the feeling of knowing that no one can see her.

She opens her eyes again and flips her backpack open, unzipping the smallest pocket, where her supplies are kept. She takes out a razor and removes her numerous bracelets, piling them on her bag. She places the smooth metal blade on her inner wrist.

Quickly, she starts cutting. She makes several cuts, and then goes back and cuts between those cuts, until her wrist is bloody, and the blood starts to drip. She picks up a tissue and dabs at the blood on her wrist, wiping most of it away before putting the tissue down carefully, so that the bloodied part doesn't touch anything of hers or the floor. With her other hand, she stretches the skin, so that she can see inside the cuts a ways. Relaxing, she watches the slits fill with her blood. She pauses, thinking. Would it be safer to stop now or could she cut a bit more? It would probably be safer to stop now.

She bit her lip, and then picks the razor up again, making several more shallow cuts, smiling as she sees the droplets of blood grow and she feels the sharp metal splitting her skin, before she stops for a moment to breath deep. She feels her mind clearing, and her ability to think returning. She can sense things now, like the light in the room and the cold, hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor she is sitting on. She looks at her bloody wrist, then places the blade to her skin once more, making two more cuts, deeper this time. These will take longer to heal, and will hurt more. Theoretically, at least. She has long become numb to the pain. Cutting only hurts the day after now, and so she can cut more and more each day.

She looks at her watch. She has been gone for four minutes. She picks up the tissue again and wipes the blood off her wrist and the floor, where it had dripped while she was enjoying the ability to think again. She looks again at her wrist, which is already covered in blood again. She wipes the blood away again. Dropping the tissue, she spreads the injured skin once more, enjoying the sight of the incisions in her skin and the blood coming from them. She wipes at the blood twice more, tossing this tissue in the toilet and taking another from her backpack. She presses the new, clean tissue to her wrist, applying minor pressure to the cuts and wishing it hurt more than it did. She deserved the pain; wanted it.

She looks at her watch again. Six minutes. Far too long to have spent in the stall. She wipes the cuts once more, and removed a bandaid from her bag, taking off the paper outer covering and removing the plastic to the point that the cotton part is fully exposed. She places it gently on her cuts, and uses her mouth to remove the top plastic sheet the rest of the way, and her other hand to remove the other one. The bandain is tight, and she can feel it when she moves her wrist. It will stay on for several days, partially as a reminder, and partially to make sure she doesn't cut there again too soon before these cuts have healed properly.

She tosses the tissue in the toilet and lushes it, licking the last of the blood residue off her razor and putting it away. She picks up her bracelets, putting them back on before picking up her backpack and leaving, washing her hands quickly on her way out of the bathroom. She will rejoin her friends, who will notice nothing, and she will be content, knowing that she can cause herself more pain by rubbing the fresh cuts whenever she deserves it.