Self Decor

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
reality or delusion? self-hate or self-preservation?

Submitted: September 21, 2008

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Submitted: September 21, 2008

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She hated that feeling she caught in the back of her throat everytime it was about to happen. The tightened, impenetrable knot her esophagus became when she was weak and stupid. More than ever did she feel so fucking stupid.

Taria sat on the edge of her bed, picking at the shards of mirror still left in her right hand. One fragment was so large she caught a glimpse of her bloodshoot eye as she wriggled it free from between her pointer and middle knuckles. Blood was everywhere. So was the pain. But she was able to ignore them both in her haze induced by some found Percs and the last few swigs of alcohol left in her fridge. All she had left in the fridge.

Another seven years. The random thought made her chuckle, or at least want to. She may have smirked, but she couldn't feel her face. It didn't matter anyway. Throwing the last piece she would bother to find within her flesh, she stood, her feet retracing the glass path she'd made for herself from the bathroom. Plush soles wore the material like slippers, the scraping making her eye tick. She walked past what was the medicine cabinet, shards of twisted metal and wood splinters littering the tub and sink.

All because she didn't like her face.

By the time she reached the kitchen, both her hand and feet had painted her apartment floor red. She liked the new colour.

The television was blaring in the living room, the last room to paint. Before she could reach the threshold, her body could take no more. Her knees gave way and she landed hard on the linoleum, a suspicious crack echoing in her ears. She laughed a little before she fell to her side.

So weak. The tightening again. The salt-water.

So goddamn weak. The sob escaped before her foggy reasoning could stop it. A lazy hand slapped her mouth shut as she rolled onto her back.

Hot salty water.

Fuck. Shame folded her into the fetal position as the tears she'd tried so desperately to stop defied her will, mixing and mingling with her blood, the fluids dancing about her head. All at once, the attempts she'd utilized to kill whatever was growing within her freed themselves and her senses were naked to this world. The hairlines of every nerve in her body was systematically sliced open with the pristine edge of a fresh razor, the cold, rubbing alcohol reality bringing excruciating, searing heat to every molecule of her being.

The black swallowed her whole and quickly, leaving nothing of what was left of her in its wake.


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