High Buns, Suitcases and Cigars

High Buns Suitcases ans Cigars | 4

•04•

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."

-Laurell K. Hamilton

I gritted my teeth as the pain in my side became close to unbearable. It snaked its way down to my thigh, where a red hot pain flashed in my eyes. I let out a whimper.

Mud was caked into my hair and mouth. The gritty soil tasted horrible.

My fingers wandered to my throbbing thigh. As it glazed over it, I felt a thick, runny-like substance coat my fingers.

In a flash, I brought my fingers to my face, to see they were dripping with blood. What?

A new, sudden pain throbbed in my thighs and I cried out. I could see the point of a thick, sharp object wedged in my upper thigh.

I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I hated blood. The very thought of it made me want to faint.

My hands began to shake. My breath coming out in shallow pants. I tried to calm down, but to no avail. The smell began to make me dizzy. I could taste the metallic, slippery blood in my mouth.

Why me?

I couldn't anymore. I couldn't hold it in. The pain, loneliness, hurt, blood, pitiness, anger, every fucking thing! It was too much; I've bottled up everything that I've been through for too long.

But now it was too tight. The cap couldn't hold it in anymore. It unscrewed and let each and every one of my problems spill out - like an overflowing bottle - they spilled out and slammed into me one by one, like a tidal wave washing over a beach.

Each one hit me painfully in my chest. I let out a loud sob, tears racing down my cheeks. Hands clutching fistfuls of hair.

My wounds, they weren't your average wounds. No, they were deeper, deeper then any human fucking being could possibly see.

Author's Note:*cries* Marnie, must you be so lugubrious? And yes i know ive been updating rather quickly, but's that bc this is a real short story, so i can space out all my ideas and shit (sorry) into different mini chapters.