Relapse. The word chokes in her throat and she falls to the ground again, desperate. The relief has drained from her body and she is shaking from the chill wind still blowing breezily through the open window and from the realisation of what she has done. Her stomach curls into her body and ripples, the fat making her close her eyes and take in what she had done. With tearstained eyes she pulled down her shorts and picked at the white scars lined up in neat rows on her thighs. Her head dropped into her lap and she massaged her scalp, pulling at the hair.
Her phone buzzed in the back pocket of her shorts, jolting her out of her daydreams. She hugged it close, splattering it with the blood that was now dripping from the cuts. They were in a messy circle, like the petals of a rose. In a sickening way, it was a rose. A blood red rose.
It buzzed again. She tapped slowly and scrolled down. The cheerfully upbeat colours swam around and mixed as her vision blurred. She stood up on trembling legs - like a deer taking its first steps - and grabbed the toilet paper, smudging her badly applied mascara. It dribbled down her cheeks, leaving trails of wet black tears. She roughly wiped it off and looked back at the bright screen, but her eyes turned to slits as she read the message, and reread it. Again. And again. And again.
‘U hav no friends. No1 likes u. Ur forevr alone.’
Through angry slits, she saw another message appear.
‘Ur so annoying. Go away. Plz. Do us all a favor.’
‘Retard.’
‘Loser.’
The messages kept coming. She looked at the caller ID. Unknown number.
‘U hav no friends.’
With that, she took the phone and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying smash. She nodded her head, fresh tears welling up and falling, spreading the black lines across her face, down her nose, sliding round her wet lips. She grabbed the razor blade again and slashed it against her skin, cutting straight through the rose. By the end, her stomach was soaked in blood and her shorts were stained. Her sobs turned to shouts, and the shouts turned to screams. There was no pain anymore, no relief. Just habit; and the addiction. Each cut was deeper than the last, blunting the blade.
There was a knocking on the door.
‘Are you okay in there? Darling?’
No reply.
‘Sweetheart?’
No reply.
The knocks turned to pounding as her mother did everything to wrench the locked door open.
No reply.
The girl sat with her back pressed against the door, her shirt clutched against her side. The blood was going through the light material, soaking through to her hand. Her mother - on the other side of the door - screamed her name again and again, her voice breaking to sobs. She was joined by her father, who battered tirelessly at the door. They could hear their daughters pained screams.
Inside the bathroom, the girl was bleeding slowly. The shirt had stemmed the main flow, but she was going dizzy and her head rolled back. The blood was everywhere now, and her hands were covered. Finally, she lifted a heavy hand to the tiled walls and pressed her hand against the wall, letting it slide down naturally, leaving a trail of blood down the wall.
With that, her eyes closed.
She was at peace...
YOU ARE READING
Scarlet Tears: A collection of poems, stories and quotes about self harm
PoetryA book of poetry aimed at people who have or are struggling with the addiction of self injury. These are poems highlighting the growing problems of self harm. It isn't judging, though, and doesn't insist that the person suffering MUST stop or MUST r...
