With My Dying Breath (GirlxGirl)

If I Wake

TW: Self-harm, blood, abuse, gore.

Seraphine stares into the darkness. She can feel her heart beating in her ears, and her skin puckers with gooseflesh. She begins to tremble.

Seraphine's father clears his throat, getting her attention once again. "Seraphine, what on earth are you doing outside at this hour?"

Her father is an older man, with cropped brown hair and dark blue eyes. Seraphine looks just like her mother, due to her tall lithe figure and long black hair. Yet and still, she has her father's haunting eyes.

She tucks a long dark strand of hair behind her ear as she shakily gets back to her feet. "I'm sorry, Father. I heard Annabel crying, so I came out to make sure she was okay."

"Preposterous. I didn't hear one sound out here until you started making noise," he snarls. Before Seraphine can say another word, he's marching over to her. Her eyes go wide as he tightly grabs her arm and begins tugging her toward the house. The force causes her to lurch forward, and she cries out at the pressure.

"Truly, Father, I meant what I said. I just wanted to make sure she was okay."

"To hell with that! You are deranged. Sick in the head. You hear what makes no sound and see what is not there. I believe not one word that comes out of your mouth, and I will not feed into your delusions."

Seraphine snaps her mouth shut. She knows anything she says will only be used against her. She can only follow as her father leads her down the stairs to the basement.

When they reach the bottom of the creaky wooden stairs, her father throws open the door and pushes her into the room. She lands clumsily on the cobblestone floor. She looks up at him, her eyes begging. Without a word, he slams the door. She can hear him fumbling with the lock on the other side. When finished, the only sound she can hear is that of her father heading back upstairs.

Seraphine clutches her face as she begins to panic. "No, no, no, no. Please. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing, nothing." Her breathing becomes labored, and she sprawls out on the ice-cold floor.

This room is nothing but stone. The only thing that stands out is the thin red rug near the fireplace. There is no wood or matches she could use to start a fire. That thought has her realizing how cold she is.

She begins to drag herself onto the rug. She crosses her legs and looks at the small mess near the fireplace’s opening. There is nothing but a bit of ash and some tiny pieces of chipped rocks.

She wipes her tears with her hand before grabbing one of the sharper pieces. She feels the cold, rough object before she presses it to the soft skin of her forearm. She looks at the way her skin molds around it. She just stares at it for a while as if contemplating.

Eventually, she glides the rock across her skin with a hiss. It takes a moment for the blood to show, but it does. A thin line of red blooms on her once-perfect skin. She frowns at the throbbing cut before making another line, and then another, and another.

Before long, her arm is covered in her warm blood and these painful lines. Her frown deepens even more as she points the rock toward her arm and stabs it in with all her might. She lets out an audible cry as the rock embeds itself in her arm. Thick blood pours out of the wound. Seraphine clutches her arm to her chest and sobs.

"What have I done? Please forgive me. Please." She doesn't know who she's talking to. Maybe she's apologizing to herself or the cruel man who locked her in here. Maybe she's apologizing to a higher power or someone she doesn't yet know. Whoever it is, she wishes they would take away this pain.

She looks down at her arm through her glassy eyes and sighs. Her fingers delicately find their way to the stone before digging into her skin. It takes everything in her not to scream. She feels her warm flesh part even further as she pries the stone free. Her arm gushes, and she uses her hand to apply pressure. Her blood seeps between her fingers and smears onto her already ruined dress.

She isn't sure this is what's supposed to be happening, but it's already been done. Her tears and rage have slowly started to turn into something numb. If she were to bleed out and die in this cold basement, she doesn't think she'd care.

She removes her hand from the wound and lays on the rug. She grabs one corner and wraps it around herself. The stiff rug doesn't do much to shield her from the cold. She shivers as she closes her eyes and her trepidation slowly fades. She hopes she won't wake up tomorrow.