Chapter Text
It starts in steps.
Longing:
- You begin to miss the sharp, clean sting of the razor plunging through your flesh and the sweet sight of the overflowing crimson staining your skin. You long for the precious seconds before the panic sets in, the moments when all you can think of is the pain and the heat that overwhelms your heart and your arms or legs or wherever else the blade has made its mark.
Imagery:
- Then come the images. When everything reminds you of the blade or the blood, the panic or the pain, the scars or the heat, the calm or the cold, and you see it and you blink and it’s gone. They’re swept under the rug, but it’s already too late, and the thoughts are back and so are the dreams and it’s stressful and you know what would help? Indulgence.
Planning:
- Everyone says that the urge will hit you like a fucking ton of bricks but it won’t, not really. Well, the initial urge might, but not when it’s an urge to relapse. It sneaks up on you and slowly suffocates you and you think yeah, maybe if you write it out, that’ll be enough, even though you’re a liar and that it definitely won’t be close to enough but you do it because you’re an addict and that’s what addicts do. Lie.
Preparation:
- You finish your planning and now you need to go through with it because, as your psychiatrist says, you are no quitter and you will finish anything you set your mind to. She would know, wouldn’t she? She did go to medical school.
- So you start preparing. For:
- The mutilation and chance of infection (mental and physical)
- The paparazzi
- The fans
- Your family
- The pain
- The pure unadulterated happiness
You keep eating though, because you can’t chance someone being astute enough to notice anything, especially a fan or, god forbid, a family member.
- You buy the blades at Walmart with some pocket change one day, the miniscule box small enough to hide in your pocket without causing the fabric to bulge. The bandages, gauze and rubbing alcohol are from Target with some random bills when your bodyguard is off duty, and while you’re there, you pick up some opaque tights and sweatpants to cover up the cuts. You start rocking legwarmers and wristbands and thank God that it’s winter, because then there’s some feasible chance that the scars will disappear before the temperature hits the nineties and shorts become mandatory.
Do It:
- You blast some infectious rock music on your laptop, the one that’s covered in stickers and badges that are peeling off, the one that’s been by your side for five years this Christmas (longer than most of your friendships). Everyone is either out shopping or setting up interviews and appointments for the new year even though that’s more than nine weeks away. You’re sitting there wondering if they’re stupid or just too damn trusting of you but you kind of don’t really care because at this point you’re just jonesing for your next fix and nothing matters right now except the rush and the blade and the adrenaline poisoning your veins.
- And then you’re gone with a slash of pure silver and a spurt of bittersweet carmine. And then there’s the relief, the motherfucking relief and the unfiltered calm that you’ve been anticipating for the past three weeks and all that you can focus on is the sharp, stinging heat that you can’t stop, even if you wanted to. You just sit there and stare and watch the cataclysm of scarlet, thick and sticky, smothering your worries and anguish with its special overpowering kind of pain that only you can control, and maybe that’s why you like it but the reason doesn’t matter anymore because for the next minute or so, absolutely nothing matters and that in itself brings you long overdue satisfaction.
Concealment:
- Now the moment’s gone and the music stops and everything is just so fucking clear, too clear and sickeningly bright and you’ve gone numb almost everywhere but you look at the harsh light of your clock and then at your newest lacerations (you’ve got to feel a little proud of how clean the lines are and then sick because those definitelyaren’t normal thoughts) and grab the rubbing alcohol, cotton balls and bandages. You think of how fucking pathetic you are for having a routine for this of all things, but that thought is pushed to fester in the back of your mind.
- You drizzle the clear fluid over the gash, relishing in the twinge almost as much as you did the initial cut. It’s cold now, and you’re hollow for a bit, losing yourself in the depths of your psyche, drowning some but not worrying because you’re used to it and then resurfacing to find that you’ve cleaned and dressed your newest mark, but not remembering.
- You begin wearing lots of layers and request that the clothes that you’re made to wear for interviews, from here on in, must cover the newest additions to your sick collection, lying through your teeth in saying that you’ve gotten a new tattoo and then laughing through them when they actually believe you. But you’re also crying yourself to sleep because you need to stop and no one’s noticed. So you cut some more and the cycle repeats.