I stare at those empty eyes, a pair of deep ocean azurite gazing back at me. I knew these eyes before but I deny the familiarity in them, the loneliness concealed within will stay appease as long as I don't allow it to consume me.
I stand still, holding the sink for 2, 700 seconds so far. I touch my tongue at the seam of my lips, I trace the tiny stitches at the side of my face, I tilt my head allowing the cramp bones in my neck to yield. I raise my hand to see blood dripping from my knuckles and I thought,
"I can breath again".
Tonight I drown on my blood, and my thoughts are bloody, and my flesh is bleeding; I felt satisfied. The fresh smell of the shiny red fluid scented my mind, I feel driven.
My world is bit louder unlike others. The voices, the resentment of the souls I've killed is deafening but I take responsibility of them. My mind remembers every people's lives I took and their screams haunts me every night.
I reach for the blade again and carve it down on my palm. I do this to silent the voices, I cut myself to be at ease, I let out blood to be able to breath. Only this way I can calm my state and sleep without the daunts of having to kill someone again.
"I'm not insane." Is what they all say, but to me its an irony.
The blade is my beacon, I worship it.
The stitches on my skin are parallel like my dreams.
The blood is my consolation.
And I can't deny something is not wrong with me but the last thing I still wanna believe is that 'I'm not insane'.
YOU ARE READING
LYSSOPHOBIA
Short StoryInside the MIND of an eighteen year old girl who's BROKEN by an EMOTIONAL PSYCHOPATH. She lives by the scent of blood, she worships the blade, she have a fear she doesn't want to tell - going insane. How will she survive the cruel world without th...
