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A girl, wallowing in misery, decides cutting herself can take the pain away.
The story that I wrote, "Deep Cutting", is based on the movie "Secret Cutting", which premieres on May 30, 2000. I would like to thank anyone involved in the production of that movie. Also I wanted to thank Staind, who produced the song "Mudshovel", because the song helped me write some of the story, too.
"You can't feel my make-up, you can't pain. You can't feel my torment driving me insane. I can't fight these feelings, they will bring me down."
--"Mudshovel" by Staind.
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
The silver knife gleamed against the uninviting darkness that shadowed Rachel's bedroom. The dull knife was covered in dried blood and was held against the open wound on Rachel's wrist. She could feel the blood traipsing down her arm, curving into paths of red. She pressed the knife a little harder against the screaming flesh.
It didn't hurt. It never did.
The white of her skin turned bronze as the blood flowed more openly. She didn't pick a vein this time. Just a spot where she wouldn't get seriously hurt. She bent down closer to the cut and her hair got caught in the flow. Her brown mane turned copper as the blood mixed with it. She felt splashes of water against her hands and she realized she was crying.
It had been awhile since she had.
The salty dollops from her eyes carried the blood to her sleeve, stinging her cut in the process.
This time she did feel the hurt. It wasn't what she'd remembered, though, since it was just a small cut. But, oh, yes, it was there. A white-hot burning sensation covered her tired arm.
The blind stinging must have shook something in Rachel's soul, because she urged herself to put the knife down and grab the towel in her bathroom. She pressed the white towel to her wound, applying pressure to try and stop the blood from clotting. Drops went, unnoticed, onto the floor, covering the tiles like red paint. Some splattered on her toes as she applied more pressure. Her toes wriggled freely, sploshing the blood around. She picked up the towel and breathed a sigh of relief at seeing the wound had closed. She put the towel in warm water in the sink, along with her shirt. She always tried to wash the towels and clothes before her parents saw them.
They probably wouldn't notice anyway, she thought. Rachel grabbed her worn-out pajamas and slid into them, adjusting the sleeve so it covered her latest "reliever". Her bed was cold and empty as she laid in it thinking about what she had done. Lone voices traveled up the stairs, revealing her parents' latest argument. She rolled over, grabbing her pillow and situating it so she couldn't hear the anger anymore.
Her eyes meandered towards her side table, which held the picture of her late friend, Jessica. Jessie had died two years ago but Rachel still held the suicide close to her heart. And she always will. Rachel felt the tears come again as she closed her weary eyes. The tears welled around her eyelashes, opening the floodgates of her soul. She cried herself to sleep.
"You take care of her? What do you think I do? Just wash the dishes and fold the towels? I have some responsibility in this marriage too, you know!"
"Oh, yeah, right, Elaine! You don't take care of her, I do! I'm the one who drives her to school, I'm the one who feeds her, I'm the one she has fun with!"
"And I'm supposed to take this crap, Bill? I'm the one who helps her with school; I'm the one who-" Rachel blocked out the sounds. The pounding, beating of her father's hand against her mother. Her mother's screams. The fist dwelling against her father.
She reached under her mattress and took out the sharp kitchen knife. It used to be a bagel knife.
Now, she thought, it's gonna be used for my elongated death. Little, by little, she had been killing a piece of her outside, along with her insides as well. She had put off killing herself at once, and ending this misery, so she could kill herself again and again and again. It felt good to be in control. She was responsible for her life and she could choose when she had to end it. And right now was definitely the time. It was her time, now. She was in the spotlight. It, to her, it felt good. No, better than good; great. She thought.
Her wrist had swelled up a bit, but she could still see the vague outline of the purple vein running down her stretched arm. She smiled.
The knife, she held in her hand, kissed the smooth milky-white layer of her skin. She placed the knife above the vein and gasped as the cold metallic feeling bit into her skin.
It didn't hurt; it was just cold. So very cold. She kept thinking.
The knife pounced upon her skin that covered the life she still held and popped the purple form. Blood spilled upon her arm, moving fast. It pooled around her on the floral mattress, shining in all its glory. The red found its way to her legs and shone bright as it went and covered all her skin.
She kept cutting, though. All throughout the blood's exploration, she kept sawing into her arm, popping all the veins as she went. Skin folded back from her wrist and she could see white. The white of her bone, she realized.
Then she felt dizzy. It hurt to think. And in all of the three years, she had been doing this exact thing, she felt pain. Real pain. She could hear the thoughts exploding in her mind and her ears leaned out to hear the voices carrying on downstairs, splattering around her head in mute anger.
Pain traveled up her side and she cried out. Her hoarse voice sounded foreign to her ears. The knife licked through her bone. Her hands moved in a fast rhythm and she cried out again.
A soft floating voice came into her head. It was too soft to make out the words, but deep down she knew what it was; the voice of reason.
Blood was piling onto her now, soaking her clothes, hair, skin. She heard a soft pounding on her door and her father's voice calling out to her. She didn't call back, she didn't want to leave this world and see him or her mother as the last thing she saw. The pounding continued and the echoing in her brain started up.
White clouds covered her view. Her felt like it was hiccuping in dizziness. Her breathing became slow and ragged.
I'm going to, I'm going to die, I'm going to die. Was all her brain could muster in all its laziness. She felt a sense of comfort as the pounding stopped; in her head and on the door. Muffled voices appeared outside and then a voice, talking to her, she supposed, said something she couldn't quite make out.
"Well...Try tomakean...We're gonnabego-...and...Well...Guessyournot-"
Her brain hiccuped again and she felt her body spasm. The blood continued to drip to the floor and pooled around the debris scattered everywhere.
Her gaze gave way into darkness and she closed her useless eyes. Her brain kept trying to reach out to her, making her think.
So very cold...Cold, cold...Jessica...Mom...Dad...I love you, Jessie...Don't...Forget me, please.
Black covered the mistake that she made, as Rachel Corrigan fell into the endless coma she'd never wake up from. Death.
|READER'S REVIEWS (4)
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"Ok, I just wanted to say WHAT A LOAD OF CRAP THIS IS!!!!!! No, I'm kidding. I love my story, even though its a suicide story and I'm not supposed to influence suicide at any cost, I love it all the same. Byez, peaches!! =} Live Free, Dread Mondays!! =}" -- Shannon C., Columbia, Maryland, US..
"UM... are you OKAY??? i mean REALLy okay? LOL.. no, I thought you really got into the gorry stuff pretty well, and i saw her die as if i was watching a movie. keep it up" -- Hu Long Wai (Veronica).
"Shannon -- wow. Amateur writing yet a powerful scene. I must admit that your story is a very sensitive ; personally, I would have hesitated publishing this. But you did, and it certainly brings out emotion in its reader. Well done. " -- Sam Carter, Washington, D.C..
"I'm sorry but that just FREAKED ME OUT!!!!!!!! OMG it was sooooo good though. I sooooooooooo dont like "influence" suicide as well but it was still cool!" -- Sam.
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© 2000 Shannon C.
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