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The house is silent. Not a single sound stirs apart from my footsteps as I walk down the hall. Like a criminal on death row on foot to his doom, my pace is slow and weary. The paintings on the walls have now lost all significance they ever held to me. Just like everything else. The walk down to my destination seems to take a life time. I close my hand around the cold handle of the door and I push with what strength I have left. I enter the room. The white tiles shine with a new found cleanliness. Even though I am clean, it feels as if with every step, I leave a behind heap of mud. I am dirty. I am filthy. No matter where I am or what I do.

Useless, pathetic, weak, worthless. The words play in my head like a broken record stuck on one song; and I believe it.

The tiles are cool and smooth under my feet. I walk towards the cabinet, pull lightly on the drawer and it rolls out towards me, beckoning. I pick up the razor. I sit on the bath’s edge, staring into the palm of my hand that holds the sharp, thin metal. I pull it close to my chest for a minute and hold it there. I stretch out the bare underside of my arm. I feel the wrist with my fingers. My skin is smooth and pale. The old scars are visible still. Lingering memories.

I hold the razor to my wrist. Tears run down my cheeks. The pain I feel inside will soon be shown on the surface. I hesitate slightly, but then the voice rages through me. “Useless. Pathetic. Worthless. Filthy, dirty girl.” I press the razor into my wrist. Soft at first, then viciously. Deeper and deeper, I watch my skin consume the intruding metal; the full depth of the blade. Blood pours from the cut like a thick red waterfall. Onto the clean white tiles; I was dirtying them again. Filthy. The voice in my mind sears through me once more. I make a second cut. The pain is my becoming. I feel myself begin to feel faint. I do not stop cutting. Deeper I must go.

The tears continue to pour from my eyes, an endless stream. The blood drooled down from the newly placed cuts on my forearm. It’s warm and soft to the touch. I watch it flow in painful amusement. I slide off the edge of the bath onto the bloodstained tiles. It looks as if the tiles themselves have been bleeding. I loose the energy and will to get up. I fall slightly forwards, place my arms along my knees and look at my self made misery. I look at the cuts lying up and down my arms. Even the first one still pours with blood. I try to move my fingers; they give a kind of twitch and then don’t move again. The words that would usually come don’t this time. Just an insane laughter rings in my mind. Soon the laugh becomes louder and louder. Until I realise, it’s not just in my mind anymore. I AM laughing.

Slumped over forward I look into the pool of blood. I can see my reflection in the shining red. My own red wet eyes look back up at me, piercing through my soul. Seeing what I have become. Seeing what I see. Seeing my pain. Seeing everything no one else could. These new wounds will not heal. My despair has not so nor will I. I have begun to put Despair and I to rest.

I fall. I no longer have the strength to keep sitting, no matter how slumped over I am. My head is spinning. The last thing I see is red. The red begins to fade to black. My eyes close. My tears are still running. I feel their warmth as my skin turns cold. My arms still bleed. I feel it flowing against me. I begin to fade. My mind is slipping; over the edge I have fallen. I hear muffled screams. They’re so far away. Only the voice and I are left in this nothingness.
“Useless. Pathetic. Worthless. Weak. Filthy, dirty girl.”

©Amanda Hadley 2005.All rights reserved.