Chapter Text
I'm so glad I made sure to get away.
My legs carry me away from the station, just a block down to a local cafe. Light lo-fi jazzy music plays in the background as I stroll to the bathroom. It being 2:30 on a workday, the energy and amount of people are lacking. Thank god.
The comfort that consumes me as I reach into my pocket pulls me from apathy, dragging me back into the moment, the lack of commotion in the bathroom evident. My brain wanders to the location I should choose. Faint stings claim my thighs, left calf (it is the wrist of the leg, after all), and the inside of my left bicep. The walls of the cube are cold against my back, even through my thicker-than-average dress shirt. The emptiest place is the left arm, so I pick my poison and begin to lift up my sleeve, unbuttoning the cuff as I do so in order to lift it higher. My forearm is littered with old slashes from a month ago or so, just turning into scars, the scabs long faded. I want to be able to roll up my sleeves again. So I've decided against that location. It also happens to be the most obvious place to self-harm, so people might just notice that the most. I lift the cotton blend higher up, exposing the fresh slashes on the inner side of my upper arm. Not too deep, I never go too deep. Somehow I still have some self-preservation left.
I reach out into my pocket, bringing with my hand the tiny, silver pencil sharpener I keep on hand at all times. It has slipped out of my pocket before, and obviously, then I bought a new one, but too many pencil sharpeners is too suspicious, and I don't want to leave a paper trail. I literally work with a precinct chocked full of detectives and brilliant minds. They just dig too deep; I have to worry about it.
It really is a beautiful thing, shiny and new-looking, though I've had it for quite a while. The screw just in the middle of the blade is the only thing holding it together. I press my thumb into the screw, pushing down firmly and twisting left. 'Righty tighty, lefty loosey,' I think to myself. The screw pops out of the blade, and I pick it up with steady, practiced fingers.
The first slash hurts the most, though barely. I can't even fucking cut right! The small amount of blood oozes out of the slice, coating just the inside and edges before drying after only like 2 seconds. That's it. And I hate myself for it. Too pussy to go deep enough. Too pussy for the pain. What the fuck is wrong with me?
My cuts sting as I pull my shirt back down my arm and button my cuff, smoothing down any wrinkles that formed while I was cutting. I place the blade back into the slot and line the screw up with the hole. Pressing down firmly once again, I twist my thumb right and fully close up the sharpener. No evidence. Discreet.
I make my way back to the precinct.