She pressed the
razor blade into the muscles of her forearm.
The sting brought her immediate comfort.
She watched the blood swell and trickle down her skin. She was mesmerised by the rich burgundy discharge. You
shouldn’t do this. It’s not healthy.
She didn’t know where the voice came from. It wasn’t her mother or her father. But she ignored it anyway. She made another cut parallel to the first, a
little deeper. She hissed at the pain
and closed her eyes. As always, a kind
of peace came over and she floated over the memories. She always cut herself up in the fat part of
her forearm. It wasn’t really bad, she comforted herself. She’d never cut her wrists, except the once.
The first time
he’d come to her, he’d said it was time to show her how to be a woman. She’d adored him. It didn’t seem wrong. Not till later. When he’d told her it was their secret and
she should never tell mum. With the
instinctual insight of children, she’d felt it wasn’t right, though she didn’t
know how or why. Just that it felt off.
The violence had
only begun later. When she started going out with a boy from her school.
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