Jeanette leaned against the cold bathroom tiles, sliding down to sit on the floor.
She was panting.
She had just thrown up.
Before, when she had tried to eat something, an abrupt wave of sickness washed over her and she vomited all the food.
With a shaky hand, she got up to rinse her mouth with cold water.
As she stood at the sink, her eyes travelled to the object on the shelf above.
Her dad's razor.
Slowly, she reached for it.
When the blade made contact with her skin and broke through, the all too familiar feeling filled her as she breathed out at the physical pain.
She sunk the blade in once, twice.
She was doing it unconsciously and suddenly, there were marks all over her lower forearm, some bleeding aggressively, some only violent red scratch marks deep enough to burn and sting, but not deep enough to bleed and leave a scar.
She had way too many scars already.
When she returned back to her bed, she deliberately turned on her side so that she would be mainly sleeping on her injured arm, making the most of out the pain.
She didn't want to think about anything anymore and thus closed her eyes.
She wasn't sure yet if she'd go to school the next day, or if she'd even live to wake up - right now, she already felt as if she were lifeless and dead.