The pain and suffering was something to give in to. Everyone always told her how there was nothing wrong with her, how she should just get over it. It was all in her head. She was putting herself through this. Her mother, most of all, had no interest in anything she had to say. All she believed was that Aria had done this to herself.
There was no way to explain it; she always felt as though she was destined to be alone. She promised herself she wouldn’t look in the drawer. Under all those shirts that she never wore, in that dresser that held her past. That promise was made only two days ago, and it was going to be broken. It all came crashing down. It was all too much.
Her hands gripped the handles and her arms pulled the drawer open, but Aria felt nothing while it happened. It was as if someone else was moving her. The razor lay underneath a jacket that was too small. She pulled it out and sat on the ground, staring at it. Sometimes she’d squeeze, so the blade hurt her palm. Once it went through and there were a few drops of blood. She decided in that moment, when the drop glistened with a sparkle tuned to the light. It was going to happen.
The bathroom would be the perfect venue; the mirrors would leave an impression on her. She’d be able to watch herself meticulously. She stood and moved quickly to the bathroom where she stared at herself in the mirror, eyes wandering her entire being—noting every flaw, every error in her creation—eyes peering into her soul. That instant told her that the one little razor she still held in her palm would never be enough. She began with it, pressing to the flesh of her forearm. She pushed down and pulled, quickly, tilting the end up ever so slightly. She knew that if she bent it upwards to the edge, the point dug in deeper, leaving the cut more open to the inside. It allowed for more blood, which was exactly what Aria wanted. She repeated her process fastidiously, making sure she knew each one, getting to know the wounds, giving them personality. The floor had a deep red puddle on it; she knew she was done there.
The kitchen offered an array of knives for her taking. There were sharp ones, long ones, serrated ones… They were all beautiful. Aria carefully chose a long steak knife. She was back in the bathroom, clutching the knife the same way she held the razor, just minutes ago. The blade was like the mirror—taunting her, showing her the weaknesses that lead her to her current position. The pain was no longer causing fear. She had no fear but that she may live.
There was a dramatic moment, almost irony; what man created to help them live by giving them food was used to kill each other. The knife was already on her arm. Just as with the dresser, Aria barely realized what she was doing to herself. She moved the knife from her mid-forearm to her wrist. The pressure point was what would pour the blood out. She blinked and looked down. There was no longer a pale, thin arm there, but a mess of blood. It wasn’t her blood; it didn’t feel like it was. She didn’t feel anything. She sat down on the ground. Suddenly, there was one thing she could feel—a tear, a single drop down her face. She watched it drip into the pool of blood growing on the ground, and it disappeared, blending into what had always been there, just needing to be out in the open. Just like her sanity.
Her other wrist was now bloody, but only because she had gone after the tear in the blood. She gashed her wrist open, giving it the same chance at beauty as her other wrist, but this cut was not nearly as deep. Her arms had lost their strength; her mind was growing hazy. She laid on the floor now, not just sitting but laying. She no longer wanted to see the red. She no longer wanted to be reminded of the gruesome past, the struggles inside her mind, or the struggle to keep control of her body. She shut her eyes. It seemed like an eternity of her just laying there, thinking about nothing. She heard nothing but the pounding of her heart fade out. Soon there was nothing but silence. Aria knew that it was over, but somehow she was still holding on… she almost heard someone telling her that she made a mistake. That voice was ignored. Just as her mind was going under, she thought she heard a door open somewhere far away.
“Aria, honey, I’m sorry… I never meant to yell at you, I love you… I brought home your favorites for dinner…”