Roses are Red

Chapter 19

Zane's Point of View:

I kept visual contact with the clock to my left. It currently displayed the time, 5:18 am. I watch the time pass slowly, second by second, minute by minute. It's still dark outside, and Serena is sleeping peacefully to my left, unaware of my antics. 5:24. Six minutes have passed, and I'm still staring grimly at the clock. 'Fuck you," I thought. "Fuck you."

I got out of bed slowly and quietly. I wanted to be alone. Standing stiff and straight, I made my way down into the kitchen. I started the coffee maker and looked numbly around the room.

'Happy fucking eighteenth birthday."

I reached into the drawer second to the top and retrieved a sharp blade. I cautiously checked the time, 5:25. With a lovely and twisted smile, I began my task.

I took off my t shirt, dropping it at my feet. Next, I turned my right arm to allow the inside scars to take their place in the spotlight. I counted.One, two, three four five, six seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven twelve thirteen, fourteen fifteen, sweet sixteen, and finally, seventeen.I laughed to myself cynically, in that fucked-up, frowned upon way. The pleasure of knowing I was giving in to my addiction sparked my masochism and self-loathing. I let the blade add number eighteen. I felt the familiar sting, and cut again and again, taking the same spot deeper and deeper. This wasn't like any of the other cuts- this one was especially important. This one needed to be more prominent than the others. After all, turning eighteen was a big event.

I dropped the blade on the counter and pulled my shirt back on, my upper arm still bleeding furiously. I took my still hot coffee from the machine, and left it black. Why would I care to make it taste sweet? Why would I deserve that. I laughed at how sick I was: How much I loved the pain of the cut, how much I loved watching it bleed, and most of all, the grotesque scarring it left in its aftermath. I hated myself, and somehow, that was the perfect way it could be.

I sat down with my coffee in a chair in the living room. My back was facing to the wall, and I was sitting with my vision parallel to the faded wallpaper across the room. I sat mainly still, perhaps breaking conduct for an occasional sip of bitter caffeine. I kept my eyes on the same pattern on the wallpaper- a blue diamond with a lighter blue diamond within it-and those immediately around it. I whispered:

"I speak in verses, prophecies, and curses. I speak in verses, prophecies, and curses. I hate my life."

I repeated my mantra out-loud to myself over and over again.

Serena's Point of View:

Upon waking, it wasn't hard to notice Zane's absence. The bed was too cold to be comfortable and I felt alone. I got out of bed, and fixed my hair and clothing slightly.

"Zane?" I called. "Are you downstairs?"

No response. I walked down the stairs and looked in the kitchen.

"Shit," I thought. "He's done it again."

A knife lay on the kitchen counter, dripping with his blood. I sighed sadly. I was sad and scared by this. I needed to go find him and what trouble he's gotten himself into.

I walked down the hallway.

"Zane?" I called.

I heard whispering coming from the living room. I stopped right in my path. His back was to me, a few feet away. Zane was staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He shook slightly, and the coffee in his cup swished around, following his movements. There was a darkened spot on his t shirt on his upper right arm, and blood trickled down his skin from the wound. He whispered to himself, repeating the same phrases.