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Triggering (SI) - Salvation or Stupidity?
Salvation or Stupidity?
As she glanced round her room, it glinted silver from beneath a pile of papers.
No.
She thought.
Don’t be stupid.
That’s a ridiculous idea.
But is it?
She questioned herself. Curiosity drew her to pick up the silver sharpener and turn it over in her hand. The same morbid interest caused her to sneak downstairs and find that little screwdriver from the set inside a Christmas cracker, all those months ago. Something drew her more forcefully than she’d even been drawn in her life to unscrew the sharpener and release the blade. Holding it almost too tightly in her palm she exhaled, wondering if she had remembered to breathe throughout this twisted little project.
There was something strangely beautiful, she mused, about the evil glint of a blade against the dull expanse of pale flesh.
This could be salvation or stupidity.
She thought, breathing in and slicing the soft freckly skin on her upper arm. Carefully she watched fascinated, as warm bubbles spilled down her arm. She slashed again and again, enjoying the control. For the first time, all her pain could be concentrated into one spot. When the deed was done, she dabbed at her wounds with a detached satisfaction until the bleeding ceased. She then hid the blade and the dismantled sharpener, unaware of how soon she would be returning to such a solution.
Soon enough though, the insignificant little blade, pilfered from the silver sharpener failed to halt the pain. She needed more. This time, salvation came in the from of a knife borrowed only hours before from her mother. In lifting the blade she was aware of its weight and how it looked neglected somehow.
No longer.
She thought, raising the longer, sharper blade both terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Plunging the metal into her arm made her gasp with pain. Blood gushed from the wound over skin already scarred many times over. She did nothing to stem the scarlet river, she watched- smiling. It had occurred to her, briefly that perhaps this reaction to her own pain was not entirely normal. But what did they know? She knew real agony, and in comparison the cuts on her arm barely registered.
In the end it was her own laziness that made the progression. Unable to silence her thoughts effectively one evening she ran upstairs to regain control. Opening the drawer, on the cold October afternoon she fingered the sparkling scalpel she had found lurking seductively at the back of the art storeroom. As a result of the weather, her clothing didn’t allow for easy access to her arms. The idea of struggling out of three jumpers, a t-**** and a vest seeming too much to bear, an odd combination of desperation and laziness led her to pull down her trousers and carve deliberately and slowly into her leg.
At this point, cuts were no longer enough, they failed to silence her feelings or concentrate her anguish. Suddenly the answer floated into her mind and she knew what to do. Taking a deep breath, she carved three words into her leg. Oddly all in upper case letters although she hardly noticed this pointless detail at the time. First of the three words would become a regular illustration of her left thigh. As she cut ‘WORTHLESS’ into her leg she sighed with a resignation almost bordering on indifference. Following suit, came ‘UGLY’- here she took particular pleasure, drawing out all the curves as they were the most painful. Lastly, she sliced ‘PATHETIC’ rounding off the unhappy little trio. Later that night, sitting on her bed, blood trickling down towards her knee, she felt them, her marks upon herself. She waited for the tears, but they never came.
She is still waiting.
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