Blood trickles down her arm, creating a red stain in it's path. The blood red is so pure and, in a way, beautiful. This sight relaxes her, a strange concept since she should be in pain. Perhaps the pain has just passed or maybe considering the circumstances it hurts less. She looks in the mirror then back at her arm and smiles. She feels better. She feels happy. She feels safe. Feelings that only come about when she relapses. Sitting in the sweet serenity of silence, her back is pushed against the door and she leans her weight on it. She's comfortable; legs bent upwards, arm laying across them, other arm straight out so the blood doesn't fall upon her clothes. If her mom saw blood there might be questions. She couldn't answer questions, she would have no idea what to say. There's no way to explain the feeling that encompasses this holy blood. It was a high of sorts; a high without the drug. Unfortunately the sense of addiction was very apparent. The afterward feeling was uncomparably good, for once she felt hopeful, and that made it worth the slight pain and questions that, to be honest, barely ever occurred.

In a way, that propelled her to relapse. If no one was going to care enough to notice then why shouldn't she continue. It wasn't as if she made it a secret. Her wrist lay exposed for the open eye to see as long as it was willing to look. From the blood stained towels to the time spent sitting in the bathroom someone should have noticed. But they never did. However, that would have made the red holy blood so impure. Stomach curling impure; disgusting. This was never done for attention. This was done as a desperate attempt to feel better by a desperate girl; feel better about her life; feel better about her loneliness; feel better about her self who she so desperately hated. She was desperate, so she turned to something people thought of as bad; messed up; dark. It was hers though, and that's all she wanted; something that was just hers. A secret; a hidden whisper; a lock that only she had the key to. She could have so easily made it about the attention, but to her that was what made this... hobby... so disgusting. It made a mockery of what it stood for. It had meaning and came from a good place when it was kept as a secret or a whisper or a lock. But as soon as soon as you involve others you become a sideshow, a disgusting sideshow, giving your self up for the entertainment of others. Others who can then laugh or worry or cry because they don't know what to do. It was cruel to involve others. Why should they have to deal with something so dark. This was your choice thus you have to deal with the consequences alone. Convoluted in a way though. She did this partly because she was lonely but it forced her into a state of loneliness unlike anything she had ever known.

The blood continued to drip down her arm and fall to the ground. Within the silence of the bathroom you could hear as each drop hit the floor; music to her ears. The blood rolled off her arm, fell floating in the air, hit the ground with a slight sound like that of a single music note played perfectly. Rolled off the arm, fell to the ground, hit the floor; repeat; rolled, fell, hit, rolled, fell, hit, rolled, fell, hit. Beautiful. The bathroom floor was cold, but the sort of cold that feels so good against your warm skin.

Once someone figured out what she did. She smiled because it made her happy that someone noticed. Not that someone knew, but that they had noticed. Knowing made everything much worse but noticing shows that they cared enough to realize something wasn't right. She wrote it off as falling down but felt horrible afterwards. This person had done what no one else ever had; they noticed and she replayed them by lying to their face. She felt as if she had betrayed them and it broke her heart slightly. It made her want to relapse. She hated herself once again and as you know that brought her to the exact same place she is right now. Sitting in silence on the cold wood floor with her back leaning against the snow white door and her arm hanging out as the blood rolls, falls, hits. But enough time has passed sitting on the floor. She walks up to the cupboard and opens the pure white door and takes out three band-aids. She unwraps each band-aid and places them upon her wrist. She stands to her feet, throws the band-aid wrappings in the trash that sits beside the sink, puts on a smile, then turns the door knob. "Hey mom, what's for dinner?"