She released her thumb and the flame flickered before extinguishing. She set down the lighter, holding the now sterile instrument in her other hand. Her weapon of choice. She rested her left arm on the towel, closed her eyes, and pressed. The pain was instant, deep, and high-pitched, if such a thing were possible. She slid it toward her elbow, exhaling deeply and feeling her relief mingling with the pain. As she lifted her right hand, she opened her eyes. Her blood, so garish against her pale flesh, was dripping down her arm. It was indistinguishable from the maroon towel on which it pooled. She had cut deeper than she meant to. This one might leave a legitimate scar. Shit.
She sat there for a moment, watching the warm liquid slowly exit her body. As it began to slow, she wrapped her arm in the towel and headed to the bathroom. She cleaned the blade and returned it to the cabinet, and then rinsed the now-dried blood from her arm. It stung like crazy, but the pain was what she had been seeking in the first place. Pain meant she was feeling something - it was a temporary reprieve from the internal torment she couldn't seem to fully escape. She looked at her arm again, seeing the dozen or so parallel lines, all of different lengths and in different stages of healing. Good thing it was winter. No one would question her choice to wear long-sleeves for several weeks. She sighed, turned off the bathroom light, and went back to studying.
7:30pm 4.5.11
