Content Warnings: Self-harm, suicidal ideation, dissociation, emotional numbness, trauma. Please prioritize your well-being as you read.
I don't want help.
I don't want hope.
I just want it to stop.
---
The day passes. Or maybe two. I'm not sure.
I don't speak.
Not because I'm trying to make a point - but because words take effort.
And I don't have any left.
I don't cry.
I don't draw.
I don't eat.
I just sit.
Wrapped in the same hoodie.
In the same skin.
---
Luca talks sometimes.
I think.
I hear his voice - somewhere across the room, gentle, measured, terrified.
But it doesn't reach me.
None of it does.
Not the food.
Not the tea.
Not even the music he plays low, like it might guide me back.
I'm not lost.
I just... don't want to be found.
---
At 3 a.m., I crawl to the bathroom.
The light burns my eyes.
My hands feel foreign.
I open the towel drawer.
There it is - the disposable razor.
Still in plastic.
Still clean.
Like it's been waiting for me.
---
I sit on the tile.
It's cold, but that's good.
It makes my body feel real.
Which is ironic, because I don't want to feel real.
I want to feel empty.
Hollow.
Gone.
---
I unwrap the razor slowly.
Like a ceremony.
I roll up my sleeve.
My arm looks soft. Weak.
Like it's never fought for me.
Like it deserved everything it got.
---
"You didn't scream when they laughed."
"You didn't run fast enough."
"You let them see you fall."
---
I pull the blade across skin.
Just once.
Not deep.
Just enough to sting.
To prove I'm still here.
Unfortunately.
---
The first drop of blood wells up slow.
Round. Shiny. Honest.
It's the first thing I've felt in days.
So I do it again.
And again.
And again.
Until my forearm looks like a sentence that's been crossed out.
---
The world narrows.
Everything outside the red disappears.
The laughter.
The fruit.
The shame.
Even Luca.
---
I press harder.
This one bites.
My breath catches - not from pain, but from clarity.
This is what control feels like.
It feels like doing something when you've been powerless too long.
It feels like being God, even if only over your own skin.
---
I'm shaking when I hear the door creak open.
He shouldn't be awake.
He shouldn't be here.
I don't even look up.
"Get out," I whisper.
He doesn't.
---
"Senna..."
Luca's voice breaks.
I look up, finally.
His face crumples.
He looks like he's watching someone die.
Because maybe he is.
---
His eyes go to the blood on my arm.
The blade in my hand.
The puddle near my foot.
He sinks to his knees.
"Put it down," he says. Quiet.
I don't.
Because I don't want to.
Because I don't want to stop.
He reaches - slowly, like I'm a wild animal that might run or bite.
"I'm not here to fix it," he says. "I swear."
I laugh.
Dry. Mean.
"You think this is fixable?"
"No," he says.
---
I look at my arm.
The red drips to the tile.
The tile stays white.
Always cleaner than me.
---
I drop the blade.
Not because I changed my mind.
Just because I'm tired.
---
Luca doesn't touch me.
Doesn't cry.
Doesn't even speak again.
He just gets a towel.
Sits beside me.
And holds pressure to my arm.
And the silence between us stretches wide and endless and awful.
---
Eventually, I lean into his shoulder.
Not because I want comfort.
But because I need gravity.
Something to remind me I haven't floated off the edge yet.
---
That night, I sleep.
Not well.
Not long.
But without blood on my hands.
Just bruises.
And a towel.