Habits

Seven

I open the door to the bathroom and I'm instantly hit with hot steam. It hovers thickly in the poorly lit bathroom and I wave my hand out in front of me, trying to clear a line of view. The sound of a shower running drowns out any other noise as my feet bring me deeper into the room.

Instead of heading towards the side with the toilet stalls, I'm rushing over to the one shower that's creating the steam. My skin breaks out in goosebumps and a chill runs down my spine when a faint cry hits my eardrums.

My breathing becomes labored from the lack of fresh air and I blindly put my hand in front of me to move away the white curtain. The movement was slow, preparing myself against what's to come, because I don't know what I'm doing. This is a shower and someone's usually naked, but I did hear a cry that sounded too familiar to ignore.

The metal latches grind against the metal bar, and my body freezes. Everything grows quiet around me, even the hot water tapping off the tiled floor and the soft choking/crying hiccups escaping from Hydie's mouth. Despite the steam building, my blood runs cold in my veins, my heart pounds against my chest, and my eyes stick to all the red.

There's red everywhere, like the water coming from the shower head changed to a dark, thick crimson liquid. It circles around Hydie's crumbled body, seeping into her pants and staining the skin of her pale, bare feet before it gets sucked up in the drain.

I don't even think she knows I'm here. She hasn't looked at me or made any noise aside from her strangled breaths.

I command my body to move- to do something, but I'm not budging. The scene has me paralyzed from the neck down to my toes. My eyes wander over to her face. Wet, dark locks of hair are plastered to her puffy cheeks and her lips are thinned, stretching out in a painful grimace. I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew she was looking down at something in her lap and I follow her gaze.

The jagged edges of a shard of glass reflect the yellow light above us. Her hand grips it tighter, and she brings it down to the inside of her left wrist.

Finally gaining control of my body, I jump out and reach for her arms before the blade could touch her skin. Her body jolts and her legs start to flail, kicking my own legs. To get a better grip on her, I kneel down and shove myself on top of her legs to keep them still.

"No!" She screams, trying to get her hands free from mine. My grip tightens and that's when I feel it. My fingers coating with fresh, thick and warm liquid that is not water. I blink away some of the water droplets from my eyes and glance down at her.

A pool of unshed tears have gathered under her dark iris's. They're filled with so much emotion- fear, pain, loathe. And I wonder in horror, how long she's been like this.

Her body goes limp under mine and I still, the fear of her being dead sitting heavy in my gut. A whimper breaks the utter silence and I relax, falling back on my butt, and taking the blade she used with me. I keep a firm hold on her wrists to slow the bleeding and her body sinks further down to the ground.

"Why?" She cries, sniffling.

Trying to calm her, and yelling- screaming- for help, I feel my own stomach turning from the lunch I just ate only ten minutes ago. I hear the creak of the door opening and quick footsteps echoing off the tiled walls. Before I knew it, the shower stops running and Lora is crouched in front of me, petting the wet material of my pants.

"It's going to be okay," she says in a soft and monotone voice. Someone takes a hold of my wrist and pulls me out of the shower stall. I stumble into someone's chest, feeling my knees wobble under me.

Hoping that all of this is just some sick dream, I crush my eyes closed and open them to no alteration. Everything's the same. It's still smokey and the smell of blood drifts heavily in the room. Someone's arms are wrapped around me and are now pushing me out of the room. Every time my feet move along the floor, glass breaks under my shoes. I look up with fuzzy vision to see one of the mirrors shattered and the pieces scattered all along the counter top and floor.

Chills breakout over my skin as fresh air hits my body and my legs finally give up on me, catching the person who was holding onto me off guard. My butt hits, yet another, hard surface and I let myself crumble. The tears I've been choking to hold in, escape the corners of my eyes. My strangulated sobs reverberate off the pale painted walls of the hallway, making for the only sound I hear.

Hands wrap around me and I make no attempt to move or look up at the person. I can't look at anyone, or else they'll see why I'm actually crying.

These tears aren't for my friend who has wounded herself, but for me who's remembering what it was like to do that very thing. The pain I felt while I took raisers to the once soft skin of my hips and the bright red blood that would peak out from every slice. The relief it once gave me through the roughest time of my life and the rush of control running through my veins. I loved the hatred I had for myself, I became addicted.

Now, those cuts are twenty times more painful looking at them than they were creating them. I stopped when I realized I was carving agonizing memories into my skin. I can hate myself on the inside, but having to look at it on the outside sucks to say the least.

Why would anyone want to go through that and live with the constant reminders? Why would they want to hurt themselves like that? Don't they know how dangerous it is?

A wave of nausea drapes over me and I burst into a fit of laughter. Did I really just think that? Me, a girl who has been making herself puke after every bit of food she consumes, just said- I can't even finish the thought.

I laugh harder, clenching my stomach with my hands and fall back until I'm curled up on the floor. The people around me must find me crazy, because I do. I have no right to judge people on their actions when I'm putting myself through just as much.

I sure as hell didn't stop hurting myself when I stopped cutting. I simply replaced it.