She smiled as the blood seeped through her skin. A pang of guilt struck her, but at least she had obtained a tool that had worked. A piece of glass, a razor blade – it was all the same. As long as it removed her torturers. The seemingly harmless scratch elongated, much to her satisfaction. Perhaps it wasn’t as deep as she would have liked, but it was there. The emotional release and silent recognition of her pain was enough for the moment. Insignificant as it was, it held a fascinating power she could not comprehend. Addicted before she ever began, it was the blood, always the blood.
After months of torment, she had given in. Why hold back in the first place? Was it that serious? At least it wasn’t suicide. It kept her from that. It let her feel as though she wasn’t insane, although even she could not always elude that haunting thought. It was in this solitude that she found herself most at rest. Although the darkness was heavier, there was no one to touch her there. The fear, the guilt, the discomfort, the jealousy, and the hate could all be ignored here. And although the mixture of pleasure, pain, release, and guilt she felt in each self-inflicted wound confused her mind and drew her deeper into sadness, it was better than being alone in a crowd. Here she was truly alone, with her mind as a companion.
She need not depend on anyone else this way. She could keep it all inside, living in her own world, yet seemingly fit so well into the superfical interactions of her daily routine. No one need know the truth. She wasn't hurting them. In fact this was being done so she could stop hurting others by taking it out on herself. If she withdrew, she couldn't say something hurtful, ashame someone else, or herself. At the same time she was protecting herself and others. An act such as suicide on the other hand, she reasoned, would be hurting those around her. And therefore if she just silently kept the pain, and released it by physically hurting herself, no one but her would hurt. And the guilt could be partially alleviated.
And so she sat there, staring at what she had done. Bittersweet, no doubt, as she often liked it. She loved to feel alone, as if nothing could touch her. And as the darkness swept over her, she felt consoled within it, although so terribly afraid of true judgement and alone in the world of glass she had created. She wished to exchange tears for silent bleeding, so that no one but herself would know of her pain. No one could hurt her with no ammunition. In the past she had sought help, only to be disappointed. She didn't blame those who had tried to help her but faded, however. She too would have grown tired of the repetitive pleas for help and the vague explanations of indescribable pain -- pain that existed for no reason she could entirely rationalize. It was in this guilt she lived and had decided the only answer was to shield herself and others from it all, and so the guilt might lessen.
Originally she had tried to stop the cutting, being repeatedly told it was wrong and perverse. But the thoughts only persisted, and finally she had given in. It was merely a cultural taboo anyway, she reasoned. It was hurting no one and keeping her from a regrettable act. It lessened her pain in some form, and she felt she had somewhere to release all the insanity burning in her head.
She quickly put it back in its hiding place, fearful that someone might find it. False explanations and excuses raced through her mind until she had a perfect plan if such a thing were to happen.