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As she sat in that darkness, somewhere between the sobbing and crying, she reached for a blade, and held it up to her wrist. Hurting herself was always so simple before. It transfered the pain. distracted her mind. Just for that moment, she didn’t want to think of the past. She didn’t want to know she had been abandoned once more. She didn’t want to feel used. All that was left to do was pull, once stroke after another. Physical pain was always a better option compared to the alternate. But she was too weak to deal with the endless questioning she’d get after. Too sick of having to answer to people who never actually cared to notice the pain before the scars.
So in reality, she dropped the blade, dried up her tears, closed her eyes and prepared herself for the coming day. But in her mind where all those emotions came back to life, she held on to that blade tightly, and pulled it across her wrist as hard as she could. Stroke after stroke, her quivering hand refusing to stop. And it didn’t. Not until all that was left was her numb body in that darkness, lying on the cold ground, bleeding itself to sleep.
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