Chandler's POV
My feet force me to move across the room to my dresser.
I don't want to, but I have to.
It's takes a lot of effort to pull the drawer open and my tired muscles ache after the fact.
Gently, my fingers push through the clothes until I can see a small blade sitting at the bottom of the drawer.
I used to do this a lot; when my parents were messed up, and I just left my mom's house, but I haven't done it in a few years.
I pick the blade up and feel over it with my fingers.
"Long time no see," I think to myself.
The cold metal feels good on my heated fingers, like ice on a swollen knee.
Slowly, I run the sharp edge horizontally over my wrist. A tingling rushes through me as the blade cuts my skin.
Immediately after I pull the sharp metal away, I regret what I just did.
Before I can think, I throw the blade across the room and hold my wrist to stop the bleeding, but it doesn't work.
I'm crying, no I'm bawling.
My current position is curled up in a ball on the floor with my wrist held in my hand.
Soon enough the floor around me gets soggy with blood and tears, so I get up and head to the kitchen.
I have to do something to get my mind off things, right?
Before doing anything of significance though, I turn the kitchen sink on and wash the blood off of my hands.
The bleeding is starting to stop, so I don't bother putting anything on it.
Then I move to the fridge, where bottles of alcohol call my name.
The first drink feels nice when it runs down my dry throat. The second drink feels even better. The third tries to pull me down into its sweet amnesia.
Yeah it's numb, but I still haven't forgotten yet.
So I keep drinking, hoping, praying to forget soon.
