Her solace was the tears she shed in the middle of the night, when she knew there was no one to listen to her sobs or notice her wet pillow..
He found salvation in the blood that often oozed out of his hand.
When their paths meet, will the blood be...
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My hands do not shiver as I clutch the sharp blade. It feels cold along my warm fingers. My hand is already deeply scarred and I search for a new place to cut today.
Three months ago, a week after Maxon's death, was when I first used the blade on me. I had smiled when I saw the blood ooze out. It had soon become an addiction. Something that eased me of my mental pain. A distraction. Something that did more than any of the therapies. The little scars that decorate both my hands are diverse. Some are just marks, having been long healed. Some are new and are still red.
I am done with today's cut. I do not hesitate when I let the blade slowly graze along my skin. Not good enough to kill me, but good enough.
Every night, I tell myself this would be the last. This would be the last time I would ever self-inflict pain. Every night, I make a promise to Maxon. The very next day, I break it. I am so used to lying to everyone, I don't care to promise anymore.
