A fringed blanket doused the moon cratered bed. Floral designed dark curtains barred the day from entering the room. They'd been bought as a house warming present for her by her mother. That was ages ago. Now they weren't even speaking to each other. A massive argument on a mass of subjects from what was she doing with her life? To "I don't like you seeing that scumbag Stuart, he's using you" and "Your father did nothing of the sort, you're making it up in that sick mind of yours." had ripped their relationship to shreds, pretty much like the worn out knees of her jeans. The floor was carpeted with tissues and clothes, books and other disregarded bits and bobs, which she couldn't be bothered to stoop to pick up now, and she knew where everything was, so it wasn't as if she had to search far for anything.
In the dimness of the room it was easy to spot the glint of the silver knife from across the room, resting on the dresser, the draws of which hung out like a mouth vomiting a mess of clothes. A haze filtered through the edges of the curtains, the sunlight trying to fight its way into her room, giving a golden aura to the surface of her skin. But she couldn't see it. The mirror had been smashed. A fit of rage had sought to kill the demon which possessed it. But now the demon appeared in millions of fragments to haunt her.
She clasped the Kershaw knife, from the "American Bowie Set" that Stuart had bought from some internet site. Where he'd got the money from, he'd never told her. She'd screamed at him for wasting their money, but finally this set would serve it's purpose. It had found it's niche in life. It's shapely body glinted as it caught a slight sparkle from the window. It's handle, a rich textured wood with gold coifing the top and a soul of gold at the base.
Collapsing back onto the bed until her back leant against the damp mustering wall, she stared at the exposed skin, the hairs on her forearm stood to attention in the cold air, quivering with nerves. An inch long dark red scar near her elbow reminded her of the last time, and how she hadn't succeeded with it. This time she would not fail.
The knife shivered in her hands, yet, she knew she had to do this, or else she would never ever look thin. Curling at the corner posters of her favourite singers and film stars dictated how she should look. No diet worked. She would always be this podgy, fat (she hated that word) frumpy woman who Stuart called his cuddley one, when he wasn't calling her a fat bitch to her face.
A final glance at her face in the white framed, cracked mirror sitting opposite her. She wanted to slash her face, but knew she shouldn't. For some reason her mind was working this way, semi-sane. She knew she couldn't let anyone else know. It was her little secret, which could still be covered up with black baggy jumpers and long sleeves. And could hide for years like all the other secrets she'd kept promised not to tell.
She trembled with excitement, dread and longing as she held the silver tip, hovering above the slab of chubby skin. As the knife sunk in, it drowned in the pink marshmallow sea, riding on the waves of short stumpy hairs which tried to avoid the slit created by the knife, but drowned in vain in a pool of red water which rose to the surface and flooded the skin. Her eyes fluttered in an ecstatic manner, as she savoured the feeling of the pain she had to endure, but the pleasure would be all worth it in the end, the humiliation would drain and she would be better, cleansed, purified, forgiven.
