I hated rain. The sound it made took me back to a memory lane I didn’t want to visit, bringing back the skeletons I tried so hard to hide. Drip. Drip. Drip. It sounded like it could go on all day, never stopping, not caring as to how I felt. It sickened me. Made me want to vomit. I had to do something about it.
In the privacy of my room, no one would know what I was up to. I closed the curtains, locked my door, and finally got my sewing kit out. It was a pink box, safely disguised as a harmless object. Only it was something more than that. Inside it were the “tools” I used to make myself forget.
Drip, drip, drip. The rain continued.
Hurry, hurry, hurry. It seemed to say.
Fingers trembling, I opened the box, revealing different sizes of glass cutters in varying colors and designs. The rain was getting stronger, along with it, the memory was resurfacing like a serpent gripping my heart. I picked the glass cutter with a short handle but sharpest blade. I knew this from experience. The blade was almost like my bestfriend.
Drip, drip, drip.
I lifted my shirt, giving me access to my thighs. My skin looked anything but smooth. It was full of cuts. Thin lines covered in scabs. Some were fresh, some were old. Some brown. Some red.
Drip, drip, drip.
Holding the glass cutter in balled fists, I pointed it to a somewhat clear portion of my thigh. The skin on it was almost healed. This should be a perfect place to cut. Having done this a million times, I made a perfect straight cut on the skin. I shut my eyes and moaned.
There was pain, and I focused on the sensation it gave me. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I gripped the glass cutter again. One quick slash. Two quick slash. Three quick slash. Blood oozed out, slowly at first. I put pressure on my thigh, making the blood flow more freely.
My body shuddered. Pain and pleasure rolled into one. I grabbed the folds of my skirt, biting the inside of my cheeks until it bled, finally collapsing on my bed with a light thud, successful in burying the unwanted memory.