Red Wine - White Linen | D.M

14

I woke up in my bed with minimal memory from the remainder of the night and an extra kick of hard hitting depression.
The sun was peaking through my blinds and even though it was sunny, everything felt dark, the clock read early afternoon.

I sat up, the faint sounds of chatter from the common room is most likely what woke me. Physically I felt okay, luckily I wasn't suffering from any major after effects.

I got up and made my way to the bathroom, ignoring the curtains pleading to be opened. I placed my hands on the side of the sink and stared into the mirror, looking right through myself.

I briefly remembered Draco bringing me a hot chocolate then Pansy returning from the party, sloppily trying to help me back to my room, although not achieving much.

It was a blurry mess. Except- except for one part.
No... it was just the drugs.
It must of been.
Could it of been?
The way our hands lingered ever so slightly when he passed me the warm mug, the contrast of his cold slender fingers on my warm skin, the small touch that felt like a collision. The way it made his breath freeze and my heart quicken.
No, my memory is warped, it must be.

But I couldn't help trace my hand over the imaginary indentation his icy fingerprints left on me.

I forced myself to shower and brush my teeth. Unfortunately my eyes flashed over to the white edge of the unforgiving piece of plastic that belonged to the scales. I couldn't help myself.

The number had gone down slightly but i wasn't satisfied, I wondered if I ever would be.
You would think I'd be thrilled, so did I. But all I ever see is the same few numbers rise and fall again. Maybe when my body shrinks, no evaporates, I'll be happy.

I studied myself in the mirror, hoping that overnight maybe, just maybe, something decided to remove everything inside, leaving me empty. Leaving me with nothing, to match exactly what I felt I was.
I despised what I saw.
I despise what I see.

I was slim but not enough, but what was enough?
I didn't want to look like a model or have a magazine figure. I wanted to look sick, Ill, deprived, dead. Not because I thought that was beautiful, or it would make me love myself, I wanted to match what I felt on the inside, I wanted everyone see that.

I was furious, I couldn't bare to look at myself any longer, something inside me snapped, split, broke.

I went back into my room and slammed the bathroom door shut. I grabbed the first thing I saw which was my mirror, calmly hanging on the wall before I launched it at the ground, smashing, shards now coating the floor.

I turned around, the mirror on my dresser displaying my reflection once again. I couldn't get away from it, I couldn't get away from myself.
I burst into tears while quickly dressing myself.

My head was heavy, too full, I went straight for my side table, I threw the draw open and grabbed what I needed.

I recited three locking spells. The spells would last five minutes only, so I had to place multiple.

I slid down my wall opposite my door, not caring that the fabric of my shirt was catching, pulling threads.

And I took the razor blade.

I stretched my arm out in front of me, laying it on my lap, palm facing upwards. I analysed my ruined wrists, looking for an open space to inflict the perfect damage.

The only open space that met my requirements belonged to my upper wrist just below my hand, my 'no go' zone but today I didn't care.

I positioned the blade on my skin, i ran it lightly over my wrist, testing. My skin prickles and my heart rate picks up, I'm on the edge of release.
Adrenaline starts and so do I.