Hugs & Blows

Relapse Vs. Recovery (2)

Odette decided that cutting with a serrated kitchen knife was a terrible idea. It was unwieldy, didn't give her enough control. So she stood up and pushed herself off of her marble counter perch. She went to her bedroom and opened the closest door. She pulled out a pair of too tight, black stovepipe jeans. Skinny jeans are what they called them here, she tried to remember to seem normal around the beautiful, perfect, californians.

She wiggled and sucked in her stomach, jumping around while pulling the material. Odette hated recovery. It was as if every single thing she did reminded her of all the reasons why it just wasn't worth it. She threw on one of her favorite sweaters and hurried out the door, grabbing the keys from the shelf by the staircase.

She got into the white four door sedan she had been driving since highschool. She rubbed her fingers over the few cigarettes burns in the grey clothe seats. The car smelled of smoke, her perfume coupled with the ginger orange scent of her hair products, and of course, coffee. It smelled like her, like Tic Tac Joe's, and like too fun nights. It reminded her of high school, of Betsy. She fingered the blood stains on the drivers seat, she remembered driving herself to the emergency room after a too deep cut.

She pulled into the pharmacist parking lot and entered the building. She immediately went to the proper section grabbing some packages and then approached the counter. She bought the blades without a second look from the cashier. She was simultaneously thankful for that and seriously annoyed. If she saw a person buying that many blades she'd probably say something kind. Even though those kind words would fall upon deaf ears.

She got home and rushed to open the packages. The blades were ultra sharp, and they were thin. She disliked thin blades but they would do. She fiddled with the razors, and fought the urge to snap them. She was tempted to break them into bits and pieces and swallow the sharp shards. She isn't sure why she wants to. In fact the mental image those thoughts force her to envision, frighten her.

She held the blade then sat it down, she stood up and peeled the too tight denim from her legs, and removed the sweater for she didn't want to risk getting blood on her favorite sweater. She sat back down, in her black bikini cut briefs and stark white camisole. She crossed her legs like a pretzel, and gripped the too thin blade. Odette was ready to relapse.