It stained her otherwise perfect ghost-pale skin. It dripped red as her hair to fall upon her crossed legs to find more of its self. The blade shone brightly in the light that slipped in through the corner of her rooms blackout-curtains. Sixty-six... Sixty-seven... Sixty-eight... Sixty-nine... ever so slightly, ever so close to the one before; each stroke gave her a new wave of pain, a new wave of bliss. She had forgotten her name around fifty-three, and now, was even starting to forget that she was alive, if you could call what she had living. For what is living when there is nothing to live for? There was far too much blood for the cuts she had made, have I severed an artery...? No... I'm on my period... Her undergarments were soiled, she had already discarded her outer clothes to prevent having to throw any more of her clothes away. Tears rolled down her face, Am I crying...? Why...? were her last thoughts before her mind gave way to darkness.
She woke to the sound of knocking on her door, and to the smell of blood and bleach. She picked herself up off the floor though she did not go to answer the door. Instead, she redressed in the clothes she had previously discarded to keep from being stained. She contemplated on going to school, she had not gone in over two weeks; sick for a few days, but two weeks? Something told her the professors were not going to believe she had a summer cold again. In the end, she found herself opening her door for the first time in days, and there, on her doorstep was a brightly-colored box. There was a red word handwritten in script on the side of the box, it read "FRAGILE" She kicked the box aside with a force which dented its outer structure.
The day found her fingering the worn, small blade which lived in her pocket. Her hoodie was black, as were her leggings so if her wounds chose to start bleeding again one would not notice so easily. Halfway through the day she knew she had made a mistake; so far she had been knocked to the ground, mocked, and groped. One more time and they will be pulling my razors out of theirs necks as they bleed to death. She left her last class with a scolding from the professor for missing so many classes and not turning in homework. She had had it by the time she reached the end of the campus. Then when she was so close to getting out she was pulled into an ally between two of the last buildings. She pulled out her blade, but her assailant simply gripped her wrist until she let go. He took the razor and walked away, as he turned the corner he called back over his shoulder,
"You should open the box."
Back on her doorstep she looked at the slightly crumpled box and the word "FRAGILE" on the side. She entered through the threshold taking the box with her. A hundred and one questions were in her mind, Who was the guy in the alley today? Why did he take my razor? How did he know about the box? Was he the one who brought the box to me? What was in the box that could be so important? Should I open it? There was only one place to start, she pulled the box open and looked inside, it's empty -and so it was, except for two words written on the bottom of the inside of the box. She began to cry.
