She still thinks about it. Some nights, she dreams about it. This was something that had been ruling her for months, keeping her alive. It was her escape. Her problem-solver. It provided her the requisite inner peace. It diminished the misanthropic feelings. It made her like her. It made it easier to face the world with a smile the next day. It made her existence easy, natural.
The blood. The release.
The blade touching the skin, tearing all her problems apart.
Freeing her from all the pain that the world, its people, gave her.
She always knew the relief was temporary but she had deserved it. She was a good person, maybe a little lost. A person trying to fight back, trying to live through the dark days. A person trying to smile.
Then there was a time when the blade went ahead a little further, the blood flowed a little more. How was this supposed to pass off as an accident? The death of the soul, nobody sees but the scars, she didn’t want to put them on a show to the very people who made her want to hurt herself (in order to unhurt herself).
She was realising that her masochistic actions were leading to more problems, the scars were being etched on her soul. That’s not what she deserved. She can’t let the world have that effect on her.
She read online about saving the Butterflies.
She wanted them to live. She won’t kill them and she won’t smile if she doesn’t want to.
She can fight without smiling. She doesn’t have to be around those people. She’ll find new ones.
There started, if possible, a more trying time.
The turmoil, the emotional hurricanes within. The process of starting to live again, breathe again and to enjoy it.
If everyday was a fight before, it was a civil war now.
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