Her Only Friend

October 6, 2010
By , Chelsea, MA
“…you’ll just come back running, holding your scarred heart in hand; it’s all the same…” the chorus of the Sick Puppies song softly bounced off the sunken walls of the bathtub, the singing made inhuman by the porcelain that it reverberated off of. In her barely covering anything boy shorts and purple tank top, the scene looked like a hung over, rejected Abercrombie advertisement. “…and ill take you for who you are, if you take me for everything…” she softly traced the rim of the bathtub with her right hand, the teen’s delicate fingers doing little ballet tricks subconsciously, her mind elsewhere. “…and do it all over again…” The dim lighting in the bathroom cast an eerie shadow upon her figure, and as she turned herself over to lay on her side and face the side of the tub, her shadow appeared on the wall behind her. Gracefully, almost as if moving by its own accord, the teen’s arm appeared over the side of the tub. She waved it above her body, seemingly blowing in a nonexistent breeze. Her fingers twirled their toy, effortlessly moving it around in her hand. Gradually she lowered her arm again, and brought the shard of glass in it down on her right arm; slowly drawing a line on the underside, close to the elbow. The ruby colored liquid slowly formed at the edge of her skin where the cut had been made, and began to trickle ever so slowly down her wrist. She squeezed her eyes shut as the rest of her body shivered from the momentary sick satisfaction felt; tears formed at her eyelids. “…it’s all the same…” whispered for only the porcelain to hear.

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