Blades of Pain

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this a while back now, so..


Submitted: January 09, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 09, 2014



She grasps the blade in her hand. She finds comfort in its familiar weight. She longs to be held, but she knows that won’t happen, maybe not ever. So she holds the blade, the familiar blade. She’s gone without for so long, but she doubts her strength.


She hears footsteps, and her fingers automatically curl around the blade. This is a private act. She knows she shouldn’t, but the temptation is getting too strong. The footsteps pass by, no stopping. She relaxes a little.


She begins to think about what lead her to where she is now. A single tear runs down her face. A year ago today was the day it happened. A year since she was broken, maybe forever. A year since her trust was shattered. A year since she was sexually abused by her boyfriend. She blames herself, for who else can she blame for this most intimate of violations? She thinks “what if I got up and left?” or “what if I said no louder?” and “what if I never met up with him that day?” She blames herself. Everyone else does too.


She hates herself, her face, her stomach, her legs, her body. Everything but her eyes, and the tiny person inside her, smothered by depression. For how can she do anything but hate? It’s all she’s been shown. Tormented every day since the day she turned five. Taunted with the same taunts, day in, day out. Hardly creative, but hurtful nevertheless.


She looks at the crisscrossing spiderweb of scars running round her arm. She hates that this is what she’s been forced to turn to, that only her blade listens to her. The only way she can release any of the built up pain inside her, the only way she can be “ok”.


She thinks of her friends, the ones who abandoned her when they found out she was different. How could she have been so foolish. She deserves this pain for ever trusting them. It's her fault, she's sure. But what about her other friends? The ones who stuck by? She doesn't deserve them, but she is grateful. She apologises to each of them for what she's about to do, as she lowers her blade to her arm and makes an incision. A repeatitive calming motion. When she stops,  her eyes scrunch up and her head bows.


Her salt filled tears drop and mix with the crimson tears running from her arm. She cries, alone.

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