"Just do it," he pleads, gesturing pointedly at the razorblade pressed between my thumb and index finger. "Just one little line." Instead of acknowledging him, I choose to remain silent and stare at the dull silver blade.

"Please," he begs, clasping his hands beneath his chin. Despite his innocent tone, I can hear the undertone of anger in his voice. "It doesn't have to be as big as the last one." He knows his bargaining will get him nowhere, however, and in some sick, twisted sense of familiarity, he strokes some loose strands of my hair away from my face.

"You know what happens next, you stupid whore," he hisses next to my ear. "You've made me cross, and as punishment, you will open your wrist for me if I have to tear it open myself." His hand grasps mine painfully, and he grins wickedly at the look of pain on my face.

"Here we go," he giggles madly as he viciously pulls down on my arm, and I stifle a scream as I feel the skin of my arm rip and shred beneath the jagged edge of my knife. I feel the blood ooze from my fresh wound, and as the burning sensation of open flesh tickles its way across my arm, he laughs maliciously.

"What a pathetic excuse for a person you are, incompetent little worm," he purrs, finally releasing my crushed hand. The blade falls to my lap as I cradle my bleeding wrist, not knowing what to do with such a deep wound.

"Look at that," he coos, crooking his finger under my hand as if it was a baby. "So beautiful and artful this one is! I really must commend you on your masterpiece! You should show all your friends; they'll love it just as much as me!" Blunt sarcasm never hurt so little, since I'm too busy internally panicking to bother paying attention to him.

"Oh no, don't you know what to do next?" Taking my silence as a 'yes,' he continues. "Well, we can't have that, now can we? Go on, now; pick that blade back up. Let's draw some friends for that lonely cut." As if possessed, my fingers find their way around the blade, and my hand rises to let the sharp edge rest right against the red skin beside my oozing cut.

But nothing happens, and he begins to grow impatient as the minutes tick by. My resolve is returning due to my regret, and he's becoming more and more fretful. The grip I have on the blade taken from a handheld pencil sharpener all those months ago begins to weaken, and I can feel his worried hands begin to tangle themselves in his jet black hair.

"Just do it," he pleads, gesturing pointedly at the razor pressed between my thumb and index finger. "Just one little line." Instead of acknowledging him, I chose to remain silent and stare at the dull silver blade.

"Please," he begs, clasping his hands beneath his chin. Despite his innocent tone, I can hear the undertone of anger in his voice. "It doesn't have to be as big as the last one." He knows his bargaining will get him nowhere, however, and in some sick, twisted sense of familiarity, he strokes some loose strands of my hair away from my face...