Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 3 April
Title: The Bite of the Butterfly
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: triggers for self-harm, gory imagery
Word Count: 645
Prompt: “Depaysement” :a French word associated with the feeling of not being in one's home country; of homesickness and disorientation.
A/N: Written for week #3 at Brigits_flame. I have never had such a tough time. There were several things I was going to write about, but at the last moment, I chose a completely different direction and interpretation than I would have expected. Apologies; I was writing through writer's block this week. We all know that story!
She is shaking long before she reaches the sanctuary of her bathroom, a tasteful haven of powder blue. It is only when she reaches for it in its hiding place that she slows her breaths. She fumbles through the packets of Alka-Seltzer tablets until her fingers close around the rectangle wrapped in cardboard: her drug. Her savior.
The feelings that have driven her to this brink swell once more as she unwraps the blade. Miniscule etchings are beginning to appear on the flat of it; she hopes it isn't rust, but her concern doesn't override her need. Anguish is going to burst forth any moment, a geyser she will be unable to cap, if she doesn't begin soon. That can't be allowed to happen. At all costs, control must be maintained. She takes a breath.
The razor is cold in her hand and against the inner skin of her wrist. Not for the first time, she wishes that she were compelled to cut elsewhere. This area is too visible by far and the chance for slippage is ever increased in her haste. Yet the gossamer threading of scars across the network of blue veins attests to her inability to break the pattern. She would have satisfaction at any cost.
The first cut is quick, the beat of a butterfly's wing against her skin. She slices three more times in succession before she feels the sting.
Blood rises, the slender line of droplets a warm contrast to the edge of the blade. She makes metal dance, chasing absolution. It is only when she loses control, the cuts more like ragged slashing, that she puts down the razor. She waits.
The sadness pours away then, as water from a drain. She allows the emotions to trickle to blankness. There it is, what she has been waiting for: nothingness.
She opens her eyes to see her shame: the blood is too much. It is a garish splash against the tile, marring the perfection she has erected, a sign of her weakness. She swallows and it isn't working, it isn't enough. No matter how deep she slices, she can't cut away the sorrow. It is returning.
Mom
She is overcome with longing, something she hasn't wished for in years. She wants nothing more in the world than to have her mother here, to tell her it will be all right. She longs to be a little girl again, safe in her bed. She wants someone else to take her fears from her, to stoke her burdens away. She is paralyzed with a need so great for comfort, one that she hasn't had since she was a child. The wave of homesickness grips her, and if it were possible to travel through time, she would be out the door in a second to find what she has been missing in her life: someone who loves her who will make it all better without asking why.
“Mama?”
The door handle rattles, and she is brought back to the present. There is no home save for the one in her memory. She is the mother now. She stares at the gory tableaux she has created and draws ragged breath.
“Yes?”
“I can't find the cereal.” The handle rattles again. “Can I come in?”
“Just one minute.” Her time is over. She slips her mask back in place. A moment later the only sign of anything amiss is in her eyes. She opens the door with a smile designed to distract.
“You locked the door.” The little girl pouts. “I was looking for you!”
She nods. “It is open, and I am here. Let's go get your cereal, hm?”
Before she snaps off the light, she makes sure to slip the razor back into its hiding place for next time she has need of it.
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: triggers for self-harm, gory imagery
Word Count: 645
Prompt: “Depaysement” :a French word associated with the feeling of not being in one's home country; of homesickness and disorientation.
A/N: Written for week #3 at Brigits_flame. I have never had such a tough time. There were several things I was going to write about, but at the last moment, I chose a completely different direction and interpretation than I would have expected. Apologies; I was writing through writer's block this week. We all know that story!
She is shaking long before she reaches the sanctuary of her bathroom, a tasteful haven of powder blue. It is only when she reaches for it in its hiding place that she slows her breaths. She fumbles through the packets of Alka-Seltzer tablets until her fingers close around the rectangle wrapped in cardboard: her drug. Her savior.
The feelings that have driven her to this brink swell once more as she unwraps the blade. Miniscule etchings are beginning to appear on the flat of it; she hopes it isn't rust, but her concern doesn't override her need. Anguish is going to burst forth any moment, a geyser she will be unable to cap, if she doesn't begin soon. That can't be allowed to happen. At all costs, control must be maintained. She takes a breath.
The razor is cold in her hand and against the inner skin of her wrist. Not for the first time, she wishes that she were compelled to cut elsewhere. This area is too visible by far and the chance for slippage is ever increased in her haste. Yet the gossamer threading of scars across the network of blue veins attests to her inability to break the pattern. She would have satisfaction at any cost.
The first cut is quick, the beat of a butterfly's wing against her skin. She slices three more times in succession before she feels the sting.
Blood rises, the slender line of droplets a warm contrast to the edge of the blade. She makes metal dance, chasing absolution. It is only when she loses control, the cuts more like ragged slashing, that she puts down the razor. She waits.
The sadness pours away then, as water from a drain. She allows the emotions to trickle to blankness. There it is, what she has been waiting for: nothingness.
She opens her eyes to see her shame: the blood is too much. It is a garish splash against the tile, marring the perfection she has erected, a sign of her weakness. She swallows and it isn't working, it isn't enough. No matter how deep she slices, she can't cut away the sorrow. It is returning.
Mom
She is overcome with longing, something she hasn't wished for in years. She wants nothing more in the world than to have her mother here, to tell her it will be all right. She longs to be a little girl again, safe in her bed. She wants someone else to take her fears from her, to stoke her burdens away. She is paralyzed with a need so great for comfort, one that she hasn't had since she was a child. The wave of homesickness grips her, and if it were possible to travel through time, she would be out the door in a second to find what she has been missing in her life: someone who loves her who will make it all better without asking why.
“Mama?”
The door handle rattles, and she is brought back to the present. There is no home save for the one in her memory. She is the mother now. She stares at the gory tableaux she has created and draws ragged breath.
“Yes?”
“I can't find the cereal.” The handle rattles again. “Can I come in?”
“Just one minute.” Her time is over. She slips her mask back in place. A moment later the only sign of anything amiss is in her eyes. She opens the door with a smile designed to distract.
“You locked the door.” The little girl pouts. “I was looking for you!”
She nods. “It is open, and I am here. Let's go get your cereal, hm?”
Before she snaps off the light, she makes sure to slip the razor back into its hiding place for next time she has need of it.