She looks in the mirror and tries to push the corners of her mouth up to make a smile. Sighing, her tired grey eyes become hollow, empty. Her cheek twitches, her forehead crumples into lines, forcing her eyes closed.
She wonders why she can’t do anything right. Her face could possibly be pretty, her red hair could be considered beautiful. But could be isn’t is. Falling to her bottom, she hears a loud bang. Turning, she watches as her prized ceramic horse falls to the ground, breaking into pieces.
Crying out, she finally lets the tears fall from her eyes. Pulling herself forward, she inches towards the pieces of ceramic. Grasping the corner of what was once the horse’s mane, she squeezes hard down in anger and the fear of complete hopelessness.
The edge of ceramic cuts deep into the palm of her hand, and in surprise, watches a droplet of ruby red blood fall onto her hardwood floors. Her tears stop, her eyes staring in complete amazement of her discovery.
She turns to sit properly in crisscross-applesauce and faces the pieces of horse. Dropping the original piece of ceramic in her hand, she reaches out to grab a sharper piece. Holding it just so, she pulls up her sleeve to reveal the freckled skin there. Gently, she presses the ceramic to the tender skin on her arm. For a moment, she stops in shock of what she’s about to do. Sure, she’s heard about people who hurt themselves, but she never would have thought she would be one to do it.
Shaking herself, she focuses back on her arm. Breathing in sharply, she scrapes across her arm. For a moment, it seems like she didn’t break the skin and she would have to do it again, but eventually blood rushes out, flooding down her arm in sweet release.
Smiling, she stares at her hand collecting the flood of blood. Quickly, she stands and rushes to the bathroom. Nobody must know her secret; it’s only for her. Choosing a black washcloth, she makes it damp and dabs at the already healing cut.
Looking behind her, she sees a trail of blood following her to the bathroom. Getting down on to her knees, she starts to clean the floor, clearing all traces of her secret. Once she’s done, she rinses the cloth and watches as the pink tinted water flows down the sink.
A sort of sick satisfaction collects in a pool inside of her stomach as she closes her eyes for the night. She had cleaned the cut and put a Band-Aid on her arm. Tomorrow, she could say she dropped her raiser and it cut her; nobody would ever know.
YOU ARE READING
Bully, the Murderer
Short StoryThis is a short story on bullying and what could happen. This is for a friend who's been having troubles lately.
