TW: Drugs, self-harm, attempted suicide, gore, vomit
I feel numb. I can't feel my body, but Peter sure can. Everytime I look at my leg I throw up blood and puke. I'm still stuck in this fucking torture basement. He says he's letting me out today. I wait for that.
I can hear him coming into the room. He blindfolds me and carries me, careful of my leg.
He sits me down on the sofa and takes my blindfold off. He's placed a blanket over my legs so I don't vomit again. He tries to spoon-feed me soup, but it doesn't stay down. He feeds me pills, but they don't stay down. He's trying to help, but I just want it all to stop.
ALL of it.
He's left today to get more meds.
He's left me alone.
The knife drawer isn't locked.
I crawl across he floor, blanket tied around my stub-leg, as I sit up and open the drawer. I take out a knife.
The sharp metal spills crimson lines across my skin. Vomit threatens to show, but I swallow it back. I lick the knife clean, taste metallic. Red drips down my chin, as short slices adorn my arms. I decorate my chest and belly in red, pausing to admire my morbid art. A small puddle spilled on the floor. I lift the knife up to my throat.
I hear the door open.
I hear rushed voices.
I hear sobbing, crying.
Begging.
I feel guilty.
What have I done?
It's all my fault.
.
.
And then everything went black.
.
.
[260 words]