kaydeefalls | Strangely enough.

Original fiction. Imagine that. It's been, what, three years since I wrote a short story that had nothing to do with fanfic? Yeah. And then came this. It's -- I don't know. Different for me. I've never written something like this. I don't know if it works, or if it's just stupid. Whatever. Read it if you want, it's relatively short. Or ignore it. Whatever. Posting original fic to a fandom-centric LJ is weird enough, anyway.

"Cut"

Not many people noticed it. Maybe one or two of her closest friends, and only because she pushed back her sleeve a little to check her wristwatch. The watch wasn't too tight; it slid a little, loose around her soft wrist. Slipped too far up her arm when she went to check the time. And even then, they wouldn't have noticed, except that they were the people who asked her what time it was. So their eyes were drawn to the watch, and the watch band slipped up, and it wasn't concealed. The thin pink-red-brown line -- a sort of smile, she thought, if you looked at it in a certain way. Not much to look at, really.

Too pink against too-white skin.

Is that...?

No.

Did you...?

I don't know, maybe.

But why...?

Because.

Are you...?

Nah, just...lonely.

She shrugged it off, rolled her sleeve back down, and it was gone. Like it never existed. Maybe it didn't. They didn't ask again, because, well. There was nothing wrong with her life. She was smart, had enough friends, knew how to have a good time. Nothing worse than a couple of drinks at a party, no drugs or anything dumb like that.

They didn't ask if she was trying to, you know, do something serious. She would've scoffed at them. Jeez, if I wanted to do THAT, I would've done it properly. Vertical, see, where the vein is. But a little horizontal line, what would that do? Nothing.

It wasn't about being self-destructive. Fucking teenage angst, nah, I'm not a total fucking idiot. Anyway, if it was, there would have been more of them. Crisscrossing up and down her arms, both arms, angry red scratches and dark brown scars. But a little pink smile on one wrist? Shit, that's nothing. An accident, almost -- scratched my wrist on the corner of the coffee table, you know, bending down to pick up something and I was clumsy, typical was what she told her mother, and that's what it looked like.

She was scared of needles, borderline phobic. Hated pain, too. Hated it. Always cried too easily when she was a little kid, one scrape was the end of the world. Not so bad anymore, but still. She lead a charmed life, no serious accidents, never broke a bone or sprained an ankle or got cut up. The worst things she collected were bruises, but that's because she'd always been clumsy. Turning corners and clipping the wall, bumping against doorframes, running to catch a train when she was ten and crashing right into the column that broke her glasses. Stupid shit, dumb little things. Nothing serious.

Needle phobia, but she went to her mother's sewing kit and took the needle, poked it into her own wrist. That was after she had the line worked out, of course. Started with a tube of her makeup -- that acne concealer junk. You know, those tubes that flatten out at one end, kinda sharp at the corners. She'd scratched herself accidentally with it a thousand times, so what's the difference if it's maybe deliberate this once. It was four AM. The house was silent. Not dark -- the lights were on, because she likes the light when she's alone. Not afraid of the dark, but liking light. The bathroom light is always too harsh, but she never dims it. Gray tiles. White sink. Blue tube with sharp edges.

She couldn't remember why she started, but then she couldn't stop. Little nicks, at first. Then long scratches, harder, faster. Over and over again, trying to follow the same line. The point of origin was raw, but the rest was just one long welt. Raised skin. Impossible to control that tube, impossible to stick to the line. Pointless, really.

So she progressed to the kitchen. Not the real knives, the sharp ones -- she was too tired, and her hand was shaking, and the logical part of her mind warned you're gonna lose control, you're gonna slip, you're gonna really cut yourself. You can't do that. You can't hide a real cut. So she used a regular knife instead, a dull eating utensil, barely cuts steak properly. But it was a step up from the stupid fucking makeup tube. It made a real line.

And sharper pain. Nothing bad, really, but she was kinda phobic about pain, remember? Hated it. The blunt knife sawing into her skin, not so much cutting as irritating. An abrasion, pink and sore, until even touching the utensil to it stung. Burned a little. She rinsed it off, put it back in the drawer, rinsed off her wrist. No blood. Just pink and raw and sore.

That's when she went for the needle.

And it was so stupid, really. Too many lectures about dirty needles had sunk in -- and, fuck, this wasn't a hypodermic needle, it was a fucking sewing needle. But still. Dirty needles. Why did she bother with the cotton ball, the rubbing alcohol, swiping the needle in sharp-smelling cotton over and over again, making it shine? Logic told her to do it, the same way it wouldn't let her near the real knives. Backwards logic. I'm cutting myself, why the fuck does it matter if the needle is sterilized?

Because.

Can't argue with that, I guess.

The line was there already. But it wasn't bleeding. She couldn't even poke herself with a needle for blood tests, to give blood, but she pushed the point into the knife-drawn line, slowly, farther and farther in. Skin gave around it, compensating, not wanting to be pierced. Farther. She hated pain. A little farther. Oh, fuck it.

It never punctured her skin, but it left an angry spot of red -- internal bleeding, or something. Just angry. Her skin hated her, hated the point of the needle, hated the sting and the way it pushed veins out of the way. But never bled. She worked her way down the whole line, pushing, prodding, poking, scratching, stinging. Her skin protested, oversensitized, not allowing a single drop of blood to escape. Oh, how it hated her.

But her cut smiled.

And she smiled back.

It didn't solve anything -- what did I think it would solve? How can a little physical pain take the loneliness away? A two-inch long (maybe less) pink-red-brown line, powerless except in its visibility. Am I screaming for attention? Maybe. Begging for someone to help the loneliness? Probably. But I don't want to discuss it -- and didn't make her feel better. She was a smart girl. She knew there was no reason for her to be lonely. She knew the cut was stupid, really, the dumbest fucking thing she'd ever done.

But I did it.

A twisted sort of pride.

I did.

Didn't solve anything. She won't do it again.

But I DID it.

Not many people noticed it. She didn't really want them to. But instead of crying her eyes out to some pathetic movie or CD (her usual form of getting rid of the ugly whatever thing inside), she could feel the slight burn under her watchband. Feel the thin abrasion. Sort of like a smile, but with a little sting underneath. Sort of like her.

THE END