Crimson

The pain felt so good. Sweet, satisfying physical pain. I watched the blood ooze from the wound I had cut so deeply into my left wrist. I rubbed my finger along the vein that was working hard to rid me of my blood. I felt a hunger for more, as squeezed my skin trying to speed up the process. I reached for my razor and dug the blade into my pale wrist once again. The contrast of the skin and blood reminded me of a painting. It was beautiful, in my own fantasy I guess. The deep red looked like it didn't belong to me, never was supposed to be inside me, keeping me alive in the first place. As I clenched on to the wash cloth I held in my hand, I thought, with a smile, that I had escaped. Nothing can stop an addiction quite like another obsession can. He'd take me back, I thought, afraid that I would judge myself too much for saying this out loud. He can't stand when I do this to myself, he'll come back. I stopped, and instead of continuing with my impossible dreams of being near him again, I closed my eyes, bringing my feet into my chest and taking in my new constant. A broken heart is a terrifying thing to live through. My mouth felt dry, and tasted like bitter emptiness, and I began to cry once more, this time falling to my knees as the emotion took over me. At night I prayed for God to help me find my way, for this to be over. I prayed for courage that never came. I wanted the strength to take my own life, if I couldn’t summon enough to live through it.