The police clap Amma's twiggy preteen wrists in handcuffs, and they march her out the door of your crappy apartment with a firm hand on each arm. She's defiant but hot in the face, eyes wet and cheeks red. She looks at you with a clear burn, the sear of a laser, and you feel your skin sizzle.
When she's gone your editor and mentor, Frank Curry, swoops in with his wife to save you from the silence. They assume the space on your couch. They're here for you in your hour of need. You manage just fine, talking.
You slip a knife up your sleeve when they aren't looking, and you go to the bathroom.
You lock the door. You slip your shirt off and look at your handiwork in the mirror. Words you've carved into your skin from age thirteen to twenty nine, neck to wrists to hips and down to the webbing between your toes. There's a patch on your back left blank, nothing written there. It's been too hard to reach with finesse.
Today, you grind the knife around in that smooth circle, shredding your last patch of clear skin below the neck. When you're ready to start on your face Curry breaks into the bathroom.
He gets the knife out of your hand, and in short order you are in their care and living in their basement. Sharp objects under lock and key.
3/3 (REWRITE) ((SPOILERS, CW: self harm, gore, mental health issues, attempted face gore))
The police clap Amma's twiggy preteen wrists in handcuffs, and they march her out the door of your crappy apartment with a firm hand on each arm. She's defiant but hot in the face, eyes wet and cheeks red. She looks at you with a clear burn, the sear of a laser, and you feel your skin sizzle.
When she's gone your editor and mentor, Frank Curry, swoops in with his wife to save you from the silence. They assume the space on your couch. They're here for you in your hour of need. You manage just fine, talking.
You slip a knife up your sleeve when they aren't looking, and you go to the bathroom.
You lock the door. You slip your shirt off and look at your handiwork in the mirror. Words you've carved into your skin from age thirteen to twenty nine, neck to wrists to hips and down to the webbing between your toes. There's a patch on your back left blank, nothing written there. It's been too hard to reach with finesse.
Today, you grind the knife around in that smooth circle, shredding your last patch of clear skin below the neck. When you're ready to start on your face Curry breaks into the bathroom.
He gets the knife out of your hand, and in short order you are in their care and living in their basement. Sharp objects under lock and key.
It's better that way.