Noxious

13 | slowing your heart

Charly 

I stood over a small, porcelain sink. 

It was one of the better washrooms in the abandoned building I had considered my home for over three months. After I had woken up in a dried puddle of my own blood, which is where my foster parents had left me unconscious for six hours, I made my way here. 

I wouldn't recommend laying on pieces of glass for any longer than you have to because what was stuck in my skin was now crusted in dried blood. Every piece I managed to fish out only brought fresh blood and it was an ugly mess. 

Wincing, I held up a particularly sharp piece of glass that I had worked loose from my shoulder. It glinted in the light, tainted by my blood. I stared at it for a moment too long. 

Phantom sensations crawled across my arms, almost begging me to do it. I knew what it felt like. I could almost imagine my scarlett blood rising to the surface and dripping into the white sink with startling color. I could feel myself doing it all over again. 

The worst part was that I didn't care when I bled. 

It was almost like I was hypnotized by my own mind, wondering what would happen if I tried again. My third attempt could be a success. Nobody would come looking for me. Nobody would care. It was my choice, and it always had been. 

I blinked and the glass was against my skin. 

After a painfully slow breath, I let it slip away. My skin remained unbroken. The glass fell from my bloody fingers and it shattered on the floor. I don't know why but something in me wasn't ready. I thought I was angry, I thought I was upset, but something else was breaking. 

I tried to refocus on my task. I picked up the tweezers from the side of the sink and I continued to meticulously pick the shards of glass out of my skin. I couldn't feel it, everything had lost sensation. I was numb. I pretended like I hadn't just contemplated ending it all and now I was saving myself. 

It was fucked up. 

Tiny pebbles of glass bounced in the bottom of the sink as I dropped them. Droplets of blood followed each piece I tugged loose. I probably shouldn't be doing it myself but I had no one else who would sit down and do it. 

I had no one else. 

Frustrated, I threw the tweezers. They clattered violently into the bottom of the sink. I pressed my bloody palms deep into my eyes and I felt my chest tightening. I knew the feeling all too well. A panic attack was on the rise and I hated it so much. 

In a matter of seconds, I was gasping for air. 

And then I just screamed. 

I don't know where it came from. My bruised lungs produced such a raw and agonizing noise, I screamed until my throat turned sore and that's when the tears followed. Sobs crawled their way out of my throat and I collapsed into the corner of the dingy washroom.

With my arms wrapped around my knees, I bawled. It wasn't a pretty breakdown, it was ugly in every sense. Heaving breaths, suffocating mucus, and puffy eyes. I didn't know why it hurt so bad, I only acknowledged the fact that I was weak. 

Those next few minutes were timeless. I could only wait for the worst of the storm to pass before I could form a coherent thought again. When my tears dried on my cheeks, and my head pounded, I had one bitter thought. 

My foster dad had been right about one thing.

Nobody was going to save me.

I forced myself to stand up stood and I stared at the girl in the cracked mirror. She didn't need anyone to save her because there was no one that would. She was the girl who always ended up in the hospital bed after her attempts because she didn't cut deep enough.