The first time I did it, everything inside me went electric.
I sat on the edge of my bed, rocking, mumbling something unintelligible.
Tears fell from my chin and hit my denim-clad thighs.
My left hand gripped a steak knife I kept in the back of my panty drawer. Three times, I’d taken it out, pressed it hard against my skin, ran my tongue over the blade, willed the urge to act to come forward.
It did now.
Eyes wide, bouncing around the bubblegum pink walls of my room.
Heart pounding in a way that made me snatch a breath with each beat.
Right hand balled into a tight fist that shook with confusion.
“Do it,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “Just do it. Stop being a bitch. Do it.”
I closed my eyes, and the darkness gave way to flashes of memories I prayed to escape from.
“Take,” I said on a breath. “Away. The. Hurt.”
Anger built inside me.
I opened my eyes, and without a thought, I stroked across my bicep like a bow over a violin string.
I screamed one short, high-pitched note then bit my bottom lip and went dreamy-eyed as my blood gushed from the slash then pooled itself down either side of my arm, staining my white tee.
Shudder breaths pushed from my mouth as I watched the “ra” of rape well itself up from the slash.
I stared, mesmerized by the stickiness of my tee against me, the lines of blood that trickled down my arm like veins.
“Stars,” I whispered as my brain went fuzzy and my heart skipped beats in my chest like hopscotch.
I didn’t go under. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
This was my first time, and I wanted to experience every nuance of it.
I watched as my blood thickened and congealed on my arm, on the blade.
I grabbed the white towel beside me and pressed it against the slash.
I stood, and on too-light legs, I walked to my dresser and stared into the mirror.
Blood laced my bottom lip where I had bit it. I sucked it up, closed my eyes, and sighed.
In the bathroom, I dropped the knife into the hot sudsy water in the sink.
I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the awaiting steamy bath water.
I leaned back and watched the blood warm itself and leak from the slash.
I moaned, satisfied, ravenous.
There would be more nights like this – when my parents were gone and I was alone to think about things humans should never have to think about.
There would be more nights like this.
“pe” and other bits of words threatened to overcome me if I didn’t release them somehow.