A Cut so Deep (Thornes & Roses 1)

“You’ll stay in here for the next two days to think about what you’ve done. I’ll have your food brought to you.” She spins on her designer four-inch heel and leaves the room.

I’m getting so used to people leaving me, that watching someone’s retreating form is no longer scary, it’s welcomed.

Pushing to my feet, I race into my bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind me. Leaning against the cool wooden surface, I close my eyes as the tears slowly trickle down my cheeks.

My hands shake as I try to calm down, but I know I won’t be able to until I’ve opened the box. My feet carry me to the cupboard where I know I’ll find what I need. My stomach coils with the promise of a panic attack. My breathing comes in short spurts of rushed expelled air.

With trembling fingers, I pull open the cabinet door and find the small box that’s been my salvation, and I can almost breathe again. Flicking the lid, I pull out what I need and slide to the floor. My head falls back against the cupboard as I hold onto the box. Inside, I find what I need. Pulling my shorts up to the crease of my leg, where my panty line is visible at my hip, I sit crossed-legged and find a spot on my inner thigh.

I blink back the tears that fall. My body is shaking, but I know the moment I cut into my porcelain flesh, it will all be okay. My fingers shake as I hold onto the metal object. Gently, I press the silver blade to my skin and push harder, until I feel the release shooting through me.

The tightness in my muscles ease. Coiled anxiety which was a heavy looming figure racing behind me, ready to snatch me in its claws, dissipates. The dark cloud that felt like a storm hanging over me disappears as the sting skitters through me. The sky is no longer dark, the soft blue appears, and my lungs don’t feel like I’ve run a marathon, they easily pull in air.

I watch my blood trickle from the cut, the small wound opening, and the pain and heartache from today spills along with the crimson to the floor. It’s only a small cut, one that will heal quickly. I’ve never made bigger incisions because I was afraid I’d be really hurt.

When I read horror stories of girls who took it too far, who craved it so much they would cut longer, deeper, I focused myself on never going down that road. As much as it helps me clear my mind of worry and fear, I’ve scared myself into the realization that this could be fatal. And that has ensured I’m always careful.

Blood coats my fingers, but the freedom feels like flying. It’s what I imagined an orgasm to feel like. Like tipping over the edge and wings emerging behind you, keeping you up in the air while you soar.

It’s the only way I can describe it.

Leaning my head back on the cabinet doors, I smile up at the ceiling, as I lift my fingers to my lips and taste the metallic flavor. I’m so broken, so fucked up from the way my body craves this, I doubt I’ll ever have a normal life.

I can finally breathe.

The knot in my stomach is gone.

And I can happily stay in my bedroom without the anxiety hitting me again. My mother will never have to know what I’ve just done. Not that she’d care.

I know she flies out of the country in a day or two, so I’ll be alone with my thoughts. I smile as I lean back against the wooden surface and close my eyes. I’m no longer twisted up inside. When I first started doing this, cutting, I went online, read about others who’ve done it. They explained how it felt to them, the suffocation of anxiety lifting the moment they made the incision. Some even mentioned it felt good, as if they were drunk. I don’t know what that’s like, but the relief is real, it’s a force that holds me close like a warm blanket on a cold night.

I push up, standing at the sink and rinsing my leg. I tidy up the mess I made and go into my bedroom. On the nightstand, I find my cell phone and tap out a message to Isaac. He’s been my tutor for three months, and even though we haven’t done anything, his messages, along with the stinging on my inner thigh, have offered me a calm in the storm.

I smile when his response comes back—a photo of him in his boxer briefs, and a message, thinking about those pretty eyes.

I breathe deeply, sliding under the covers and snaking my hands between my thighs. Time to find another release.