All Nothing
Everything hurt.
Your head pounded, your heart ached, and your thighs stung.
You felt so stuck.
Yet, despite all of it, all of the situation and hurt of it, your chest felt empty. It ached with an emptiness that was indescribable.
And, even though you’ve seen how close you’ve come to being caught, you still dug out the infuriatingly small blade, standing up and going to the bathroom.
Everything hurt and that was good, you realized. You deserve to feel like this, to feel this shitty.
You dropped your new sweats and sat down in the corner of the bathroom, tearing the bandages apart and throwing them with sobs.
Tears dripped onto the scabbed, the healed, the fresh scars, stinging them. It was good.
You took the blade and ripped a new, fresh scar over the others, watching a crimson river form and drip down your leg. It was deep, and your leg was trembling.
You did more.
You needed more, needed to feel, needed to be numb, needing everything, needed nothing.
It was a pool of dark blood when more incisions were slit — it was probably too much blood to lose. You liked it.
You sniffled, tears dripping off the tip of your nose, mixing with the blood.
You were so tired.
You put the blade down and used the nearby toilet to stand, the overwhelming nausea and dizziness taking control of you.
You tried to sit before your vision faded out completely, but couldn’t.
Everything went black and suddenly it was all nothing.