She can’t remember the first time she did or why.
Every time the blade sliced into her skin, she winced at the pain but it was nothing compared to the pain in her tortured mind.
Hidden in her room, safe from a world she didn’t understand, she stood alone, mesmerised by the crimson rivulets slithering down her arms.
For every cut, one word left unsaid. She kept cutting, mechanically, until she could feel no more. Then she cleaned herself and rolled down her sleeves.
The first time but alas, not the last.
So young, so hard on herself. Why? Why?
The bottle is empty. No matter how I look at it, it's empty. I turn it upside down but not one drop is left. Maybe I should have bought two, but I didn't have enough change. I am now half drunk, trying to forget what I can't remember. I wish I had a drinking buddy, but then again, the bottle would have been empty faster. A buddy to remind me I've gone mad.
But it's only a dream.
I wake up in the same metal cot with the same solitary bulb dangling from the ceiling. Locked in my cell, forever.
What is more to say? when you have no faith left, what do you do? What is the point of carrying on that long dark road that does not go anywhere?
I am looking into the abyss. Bereft of everything. The smile is gone, the tears have long dried. There is nothing left in me to carry me to tomorrow. A fool I have lived, a fool I will die.
I have no reason this time, not to jump.
Tell me why, then, I still hesitate, hoping against all hope that someone may call my name, just one last time?