Prologue
The cold metal sliced my skin causing me to moan. Euphoria was building inside me and each cut stripped my skin into ribbons. Ribbons of blood red flesh, gaping open. The streaming moonlight from my small window illuminated each gorge on my skin. My body was already covered in egregious scars and I was just creating company. There were flashes of emotions, but those only caused me pain. Finally, I could feel something, something more than the numbness that devoured every waking second of my life. Easy and effortless, each cut caused more blood to well on my already bloodied left arm. I chanced a glance at the alarm clock sitting on my bedside table; the red analog numbers glaring back at me. 4:30. Close enough to sunrise. I thought. My head was pounding but I could care less so long as I was able to see my day break anew. A pile of paper towels lay on my bed, the majority of them soaked through with blood. The cold settled on me, raising goose bumps amid scarlet stained skin. Suddenly, poignant memories rushed into my empty head. Memories of you and I madly in love, your hands wrapped around my waist, the bliss, the butterflies, each sweet, carefree moment. I could feel your kisses and each burned my lips with such unexplainable passion that a gasp escaped through them. The sudden pain bloomed like a red rose covered in thorns, scarring my skin. Each breath I took became laboured, burning a hole in my heart. Your laugh rang through my ears and I clawed furiously at them, the razor dropping to my bed. But in an instant, everything about you vanished. Silence. Only to be replaced, seconds later, by yelling, screaming, malignant words, a voice all too familiar to me.
“Shut the fuck up!” The voice screamed at me.
“This is fucking ridiculous!” Degrading word after degrading word was flung at me. “Dumbass”, “Stupid”, “Moron”, “Retarded”, “Blonde”, “Slut”, “Bitch”, “Whore”, “Fuck-up”.
Another scream pierced my ears but this time I identified it as my own. My cries of pain were vociferous, painful, screeching loud. They were cries of hurt, of needing someone to lean on. This rock was cracking under pressure. I felt my own consciousness being swallowed whole by Violet’s. Violet----my cynical, heartless, and bitchy personality living inside me---- had jumped into the driver’s seat, trying to shove me into the trunk. She was dragging me to the rear end of my out of control car; I was fighting tooth and nail. My nails raked across the siding, each beginning to rip off, leaving trails of blood as Violet pulled. I screamed in terror, not wanting to let her win. But she knew how much stronger she was. She knew how much control she had. I grabbed onto the back window frame, my knuckles going white while Violet tugged and wickedly pulled at me. I thrashed my legs, trying desperately to connect my legs to her head. I was struggling, losing the battle; Violet took the opportunity I presented her (my weakness sickened me) and gave one final tug. That’s when I heard a whoosh, the sound of me losing my battle with Violet. So, I gave up like I usually tend to do. She consumed me in an instant, and I was gone. Lost. Never to be seen again. I pushed out all the feelings; every inkling of pain was instantly rocketed out of my orbit. Violet is me and I am Violet. All of Violet’s qualities have been buried deep inside me, slowly clawing their way to light. And they had won; they had taken permanent residence in my being. I wanted, needed, to suffer more. Suffer for my mistakes, my failures, the simple fact that I existed. My stomach churned with unquenchable need for more blood to taint my already stained bed sheet. I reached for the razor and I cut again, deeper this time, disregarding the paper towel I had previously set up. The scarlet drops rose up to my skin and began to bloom, small city dots on the map of my scarred skin. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the silence became prominent and loud. I needed to end this, I needed out. I tore at my raven black hair, clumps coming out with each vicious tug, hoping upon hope that one of them would end the agony of mine. Standing up, trickles of blood careening down my arm, I walked over to my dresser, pulled open the bottom drawer and reached for the newest razor I owned. A clean, shiny, and fresh blade for my final escape. I smiled, melancholy as I slipped into the only dress I owned, a black billowing Toole skirt with an overlay of black lace, held on my throbbing shoulders by a thin black piece of fabric. More memories caught at my throat, the sound of our song catching my ears. The dance.... the dance where it all ended. Another scream fell out of my mouth, the sounds of that night assaulting me. Gunshots, more screaming, panicked screams of terror. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed, coldly. I looked like shit. My mascara had run under my eyes, leaving black trails of tears on my cheeks and there was a smear of blood on my forehead. My eyes were as dark as the nights that have plagued me all this time. Shall I leave a note? Well, there’s really no point, everyone in your family will realize why you’re killing yourself. Well. Regardless. I have to apologize for the mess I’m leaving. I don’t want Dad or Mum to get mad. My friends have to have something to hold onto. I can’t just leave and not give them an explanation. Besides, it’s all about creating the perfect picture, right? Sure is. Now hop to it, artist.
I found a piece of lined paper, a sharpie and scrawled, I’m sorry for the mess. Tell my friends that I’m sorry but he’s waiting for me.
I felt a tug, an odd sort of tug. But Violet severed the connection and routed my mind back to the task at hand.I took hold of my final connection to the freedom that I yearned for. The final cuts were something I was truly proud of. The timeline of my life’s accomplishments (which weren’t anything too spectacular) and memories flickered through my mind like a high-speed car chase.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” I whispered and took the razor to my left wrist. In that instant I became a painter, stroking my paintbrush over my canvas. Deep grooves and harsh lacerations were the focal point of the piece, my colour choice: red. The paint was dripping and I knew that starting only one side would get me nowhere fast, so I moved over to work on the right side of the piece. Identical, mirror image grooves and lacerations appeared on the right side of the canvas as well. And here too did the paint spill.
Drop by drop, draining, leaking, sliding off the canvas. My eyes began to flutter close with each scarlet drop that plummeted to the floor. I felt my soul being lifted out of my marred, almost unrecognizable physical body. My breathing became shallow, each breath burning a hole just like it did before. Only this pain wasn’t pain. It was freedom. And I knew, with each shallow breath, with each fleeting memory, with each heavy close of my eyelids, that I was one step closer to that freedom. Mustering up enough energy I did the last thing I could think of. I took the razor and slit my throat. Deep, deep, deeper than the Grand Canyon.
“At last, the freedom I’ve been waiting for,” I sputtered, each word accentuated with a bubbling noise that seemed to emit from the laceration on my throat. And at last as the day broke anew, I whispered a barely audible “I love you.”
And I was free.
......Or so I thought.
