From despair to where in OD

She sat there, in perfect silence, slowly drawing the knife back and forth across her palm. Not quite enough pressure to break the skin, but so, so close. People claimed to know what she was feeling, but they didn’t of course they didn’t.

No one knows, not really. The feeling that things aren’t really worth bothering with. The feeling that your life would be better lived if you weren’t living it at all. Yes, she knew that she wasn’t the only person to have ever felt like this. But, no one knew what she, personally, was feeling. It was different for everyone.

It hadn’t always felt like this. She used to be quite outgoing, vivacious even. Then, all of a sudden, things changed. She couldn’t even point to one thing that happened to her to cause it. It just happened. The black dog, as Winston Churchill called it. She was moody, lethargic, couldn’t be bothered with anything due to not actually seeing the fucking point. Her friends did notice the change but they chalked it up to problems at work or with her relationships. Convenient excuses, admittedly, but the problems with both were actually caused by, not the causes of, her mood.

The first real signs anyone had noticed was when a friend, not being able to raise her on her phone, came round. The friend let herself in, as was usual, and entered the kitchen. There, the friend saw her, Comfortably Numb playing on repeat on her iPod. With the knife, the same one she had playing across her hand right now, testing to find out exactly how much was too much pressure and how much was not quite enough, edge down being slowly pressed into her thigh.

But what really scared the friend was that she was perfectly calm. Bright eyed, seemingly not noticing what she was doing, continuing to drink her wine with her other hand, smoking a cigarette between sips and chatting away as if nothing strange was going on. There then followed hospitalisation, psych reports and a therapist. A fucking therapist! As if that bitch could actually help her! She usually lied to the therapist, including on the issue of whether or not she was taking her medication. She had no problem with drugs, assuming they were actually needed and could help. Which these really couldn’t. She knew that.

She glanced down to her hand as a line of crimson formed on it. She put down the knife and held up her hand with the fingers pointed upwards. Lighting a cigarette she watched, rapt. Interesting stuff, blood, if you think about it. She wondered about possibly getting more of it to come out and play.