(no subject)
Elliot had first heard of it in a magazine her mum had lying about the apartment over hols a year or so ago. Left alone in the apartment all day everyday for a few weeks and not allowed to go out on her own, Elliot had turned exploring the place into a game. Finding her mum's stack of old magazines in her closet had been almost a godsend. She hadn't been interested in the make-up or fashion tips or the quizzes, but drawing mustaches on models had led her to find a few interesting articles, at least.
Elliot wondered if, had she not found the article on self-harm in that old magazine, would she have ever thought of it herself? She wondered if she could link this back to her mum, blame it all on her in the end, but that just seemed selfish and mean. Her mum had been busy, but it wasn't as if she had left the article out in plain sight, with notes sticking out telling Elliot to consider hurting herself one day.
Now, though, as she sat on the closed toilet seat and scratched her fingers over her wrist, through her sweater, Elliot's thoughts flickered between her family, her friends-- Michael. She closed her eyes as she gripped her wrist tightly, wondering if she could bruise herself before it hurt too badly. Would the sweater and blouse in the way make it less obvious that the possible bruise was from a hand? Not that she was planning on letting anyone see her bare wrist anytime soon. Thank goodness it was winter and time for all sensible people to wear long sleeves.
She pushed up her sleeve, looking dispassionately down at the series of nearly parallel, one-inch long cuts on her inner wrist. Each one had hurt, stung really, and a few had been too deep and bled more than she was comfortable with. Elliot had only started hurting herself a few days ago and there weren't many cuts. She wasn't sure how long she would keep it up for. She had the feeling that the longer she hurt herself, the more likely it was someone would notice. And she didn't want anyone to notice. She didn't want to burden anyone else with this stupid expression of pain.
Elliot scraped her fingers up and down her bare wrist, wincing when her nails caught on a bit of exposed flesh and tore slightly at the wounds. She had told herself only a few cuts a day, and she had already hidden away after breakfast so she'd have to wait until tomorrow. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, curling her toes in her just slightly too-small shoes.
She felt dirty and gross, punishing herself like this. Deep in her mind, she knew this wouldn't help. But at the forefront of her thoughts, it just made sense. Elliot deserved this, first of all, for being such a pain and so conflicted and so miserable all the time. And it also helped her focus. If there was physical pain--both at the exact moment she pointed her wand to her wrist and cut as well as later, when she brushed against a wall or her bag or her leg, on purpose or not--that physical pain could distract her from the surge of emotions.
Elliot rested her head against the bathroom stall and took a few deep breaths. Then she tugged down her sleeve and left the bathroom stall, smiling absently at the girls fixing their hair in the mirror.
Elliot wondered if, had she not found the article on self-harm in that old magazine, would she have ever thought of it herself? She wondered if she could link this back to her mum, blame it all on her in the end, but that just seemed selfish and mean. Her mum had been busy, but it wasn't as if she had left the article out in plain sight, with notes sticking out telling Elliot to consider hurting herself one day.
Now, though, as she sat on the closed toilet seat and scratched her fingers over her wrist, through her sweater, Elliot's thoughts flickered between her family, her friends-- Michael. She closed her eyes as she gripped her wrist tightly, wondering if she could bruise herself before it hurt too badly. Would the sweater and blouse in the way make it less obvious that the possible bruise was from a hand? Not that she was planning on letting anyone see her bare wrist anytime soon. Thank goodness it was winter and time for all sensible people to wear long sleeves.
She pushed up her sleeve, looking dispassionately down at the series of nearly parallel, one-inch long cuts on her inner wrist. Each one had hurt, stung really, and a few had been too deep and bled more than she was comfortable with. Elliot had only started hurting herself a few days ago and there weren't many cuts. She wasn't sure how long she would keep it up for. She had the feeling that the longer she hurt herself, the more likely it was someone would notice. And she didn't want anyone to notice. She didn't want to burden anyone else with this stupid expression of pain.
Elliot scraped her fingers up and down her bare wrist, wincing when her nails caught on a bit of exposed flesh and tore slightly at the wounds. She had told herself only a few cuts a day, and she had already hidden away after breakfast so she'd have to wait until tomorrow. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, curling her toes in her just slightly too-small shoes.
She felt dirty and gross, punishing herself like this. Deep in her mind, she knew this wouldn't help. But at the forefront of her thoughts, it just made sense. Elliot deserved this, first of all, for being such a pain and so conflicted and so miserable all the time. And it also helped her focus. If there was physical pain--both at the exact moment she pointed her wand to her wrist and cut as well as later, when she brushed against a wall or her bag or her leg, on purpose or not--that physical pain could distract her from the surge of emotions.
Elliot rested her head against the bathroom stall and took a few deep breaths. Then she tugged down her sleeve and left the bathroom stall, smiling absently at the girls fixing their hair in the mirror.