She sat in her bathroom. Her head in her hands, her eyes closed. She sobbed. The sadness was overwhelming; she actually felt a sense of grief, almost tangible, engulfing her very being. She felt the energy drain from her frail body, her back stooped.
She lifted her head from her hands and opened her eyes. The lights were hurting them. She paused, then looked to her right, opened the bathroom closet, and grabbed some small nail scissors from a familiar clutch. She tossed it around her hand for some time. Then, she pressed its edges against her thighs, and tugged. It was silly, she knew.
She scraped the sharp ends across a little patch on her thigh softly. She repeated, slowly. She watched as her skin reddened, but she did not stop. No, consumed in her unhappiness, she continued. She sensed pain, ache, inside. Her heart hurt. She was sad. . ‘Die’, she whimpered. ‘Die, die, die.’ Her emotions grew, her scratches too, stronger and harder, and she sadder, and angrier. Her heart pounded as her scratching turned to stabbing.
‘Die! Why don’t you fucking die!’ she moaned, her chest heaving with misery. It was starting to hurt, she could sense the pain in her thigh. ‘Die! Die! You deserve it! You fucking deserve it! DIE!’ she cried. She abraded her skin until she could no more. ‘Why won’t you just die?!’ she wept. Then, she stopped stabbing, letting go of the scissors from her hands. She was crying. ‘Why won’t you die.’ she sighed with tears masking her face. She sat there, still, for a while.
She stopped crying. She felt weak, in the face. Exhausted. She got up, looked at her miserable miserable face in the mirror. Such beauty, marred. Eyeliner stained her soft cheeks. She wiped it away, she washed her face. Looked again in the mirror, and left the bathroom.
Into the living room she went, and smiled, at her family. ‘Hey!’ she said, sincerely casually. Her thigh burnt.
It’s ever so sad, isn’t it?