As she read through the paragraph, the memories that she tried to hide came to the surface. That sensation that she tried to suppress with load of the antidepressants she ate; came back.
Her reasons to cut through her smooth skin never came out of the blue. It was well thought, well planned. But as she was not competing with the death, she never will. Something inside her is pushing her to live.
Those cuts she made, they scream to her the reasons. Even though she never understood the reasons completely she never outweighed the screams.
Smooth sailing of sharp object on her skin, the intensifying pain, the read thick blood; it made her feel alive. She never cut twice, cutting once always served the purpose. A reminder of what she had, what she might lose; those were never the reason that she stopped at one cut. It was that she felt alive. She felt anger. She was the center of attention.
She never blamed anyone for what she did, she never hated her for what she is doing to self. She was never happy and she know she may never will. She was a question which she knew answer to but never understood what that is.
She always waited for her skin to get back to the older-self to cut again.