"My soul is lonely and numb longing for the pain, to feel something, anything really." - RA ——————————————————————————————— ⚠️Trigger warning ⚠️ Please be aware that I do not, in any way, encourage or agree with the way this character is handling her trauma. If you are going through the same thing please do not hesitate to get help from either friends, family or professionals. Take care of yourself and know that this is real, mental health is a real.
You are not alone.
⚠️Before reading this chapter make sure you have read the author's note and know what type of triggering content it might contain ⚠️
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I look at the small knife thoughtfully.
It was a two inch flip knife, the first weapon I was ever given at the age of 4. It's almost funny how much damage such small thing could cause, how fast things could change. I mean right now, if I so much as move one wrong move, I'll be bleeding to death.
What was more funny is how meaningless the power it holds truly is. Without somebody else controlling it, being behind every move it makes and using its strength, it holds no value. It can do no damage, unless it's intended to.
I remembered then. I remembered the days where I was hung, chained to the ceiling and left to stare at a surgical table. Put especially in my very own personal cell, was the same exact steel shiny table my mother died giving birth to me on. Expect now, torture weapons of all sorts were lying on it. Her blood wiped clean and her body somewhere underground. He'd leave me there for hours. Leave my 11 year old self to wonder if my mother's ghost could've possibly lived within that table, he'd left me to wonder what weapon would scar my body that day. It was mocking, to know the hurt was coming but not know when or where or how. To imagine the different ways my mother's death had ended with me here and her gone. Especially when he made sure I knew it should've been the opposite.
He treated me like an animal. An animal whom's meat he could slash off until nothing is left but scarred skin.
I look at the knife in my hands, it was no different than the weapons on that table. Smaller maybe, less scary even. But it meant something different for me to be the one holding it right now. It meant I'm the only one that could hurt me now.
Heis not here, he can't use this against me, he can't hurt me now.
Only I can.
I bring the knife closer to my skin until the tip touches my forearm. I slowly press it down, relishing on the way the cold metal felt against my warm blooded skin just before I drag it across my forearm and watch the blood seep out. It poured more the deeper I pressed, the longer I dragged. I needed it. My pain had felt as though it begun to dissolve within each drop of blood that escaped the cut. Relief seeped through me as I traced the straight line of the cut, the sight of it was addicting, comforting. Familiar. After a few minutes, maybe even hours of just staring at it, I was finally able to pull the knife away and place it on my nightstand. I take a deep breath, wiping any stray tears. It didn't take long before my eyes found their way to the cut again.
