Everyone had always commented about her skin. It had always been creamy in its darkness. She rarely ever had a blemish, and scars never stayed for long.
She took off her jeans, tossing them in the hamper, and sat down on the towel she had neatly placed on the floor. Cleanliness was always a habit for her. She couldn’t allow things to become messy.
Running her hand down her inner thigh, she inspected the skin. It wasn’t quite as smooth as the rest of her body, the color was a little off as well, but that was the only evidence. It helped that she never did it in the same spot. Yet years of release meant that she was running out of space.
Turning and reaching under the bed, she pulled out a pink jewelry box covered in sparkles. Her father had given it to her when she was little, when she was still whole; before the blood in her veins had started to choke her. It was something she couldn’t explain to anyone, not even her grief counselor.
Her father had passed away from cancer when she was in fifth grade. His death had of course devastated the entire family. They all did the healthy thing and went to grief counselors and “felt much better” for it. Everyone was healing and they were all healthy. Healthy healthy healthy!
Then in early high school, she started feeling odd; somehow compressed; like she would explode. She had no idea what to do.
One day she just found herself staring in the mirror. It seemed that her head was full of flames and her body felt swollen, ready to split. Yet she looked just fine from the outside.
She stared for a long time, just looking at herself, disgusted. What started as studying her entire body then narrowed to separate parts; her arm, her hand, and eventually just her thigh. The thought, “what beautiful skin!” passed through her mind. An echo of praise she’d heard her whole life. It disgusted her. That was it.
She left the bathroom. Her little brother than up and gave her a hug as she made her way to the kitchen. The house smelled of the pancakes and bacon her mother was cooking for their Saturday morning feast. She stopped to ruffle her dog’s fur, and was given an attack kiss on the cheek from her mother. They were all so happy and healthy! Happy happy happy!
She wasn’t afraid when he mother asked her what she needed the knife for. It was a steak knife with a white handle and serrated edge. Of course it was just for a “school project” she was working on. Her mother wouldn’t be surprised that she needed a tool like that. She was known for her brilliant science projects, dioramas, and everything else scholastic. Whatever she needed to flex her scholastic muscle was given to her.
As she walked back to the bathroom and grabbed a dark blue towel, her mother called after her that breakfast was almost ready. “The brain needs to be fed,” was one of her mother’s favorite saying. This was especially after her father had died and she had struggled to keep any food down. Food still made her sick, but she chewed and swallowed with the best of them, keeping a smile on her face the whole time.
Laying out the towel as she would at the beach, she sat down and looked at her arm. Her very exposed arm. All of the sports she played had short sleeved uniforms. That won’t work. Then she looked at her inner thigh. It was as pristine as the rest of her skin. It even had a bit more flesh. Less dangerous.
So for the first time, she sank the tip of the white handled knife into her skin…just the tip…and held it there. Instantly her brain slowed down and acted like normal. Her body no longer felt like it was about to burst from the inside out. She sighed with relief. The little trickle of blood that dripped out seemed inconsequential. It was absolutely worth the relief. She didn’t go any farther that time, but each release seemed to require the cut to be a little bit longer.
People commented about how easy going and calm she was after that. Great skin, great grades, great family, great athlete, great great great! Healthy healthy healthy! And this time she felt that it was true.
And now it was today. It was this time. It was now. She opened the jewelry box that smelled like aging felt. The ballerina that used to twirl ever so slowly each time the cover was lifted still sprang up, but had run out of music to dance to and working gears to guide her.
She still felt a little nervous, but then very calm and peaceful each time she held the knife. The blade still pristine and white from all the scrubbings it had been given.
She found a spot that was still clean and smooth. The color was still perfect and creamy, deep and dark. She slowly placed the tip in and stopped for a moment, taking three deep breaths so that she could concentrate on the relief rather than the pain. She then dragged it a little further, feeling the weight on the tip as it opened her skin. It felt so wonderful. So good and clean. The pressure was escaping. Her head was calm.
Then a dark but tempting thought revealed itself from the depths of her mind. She could just keep pushing. If this felt good, then it wouldn’t hurt for the knife to go in farther.
With giddy delight she closed her eyes and pushed down harder on the knife, breathing out with a long sigh. She was oblivious to her surroundings, including her dog who had nosed his way into her room to check on her. She wasn’t expecting it when he placed his snout on her foot in a friendly and comfortable way.
She jerked, and felt real pain for the first time in years. Letting go of the knife, she looked down and saw the white handle sticking out of her brown flesh, the blade in up to the hilt. There was thick line of blood spilling out of what was now the sagging flesh from her thigh. The small cut was turning into a gaping hole. She’d gone too far, but before the thought had sunk in, she became mesmerized by what she had made; the beauty of the dissected muscle, the pure red of the blood. She watched it flow while her head was overcome with a fuzzy sense of being.
She didn’t notice that she was slumping over until she’d slid onto the floor. Her vision was focused on the blood that was flowing past the edges of her towel. Briefly, she thought that she would need to clean that up first. But then even that didn’t matter; when everything went from red to black.
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