I laid there in the darkness, the apartment empty but for me. I had cast off most of my clothing, laying on the sagging mattress in just a crop top. The high was wearing off, and the black press of reality was swiftly returning. It never lasted long enough.

I ran my hands across my body, the heightened sensations that followed climax almost making me forget the gnawing, festering hole inside where I used to be able to feel the boiling heat of my Song.

I felt tears leaking out from my eyes, and I wiped them away hurriedly. It wasn’t worth crying over anymore. I had cried myself to sleep for weeks after the Battle of the Bands. I was still suffering. Even Sonata - Sonata - had recovered before I had. The little mewling pup had moved on and was actually talking about having a friend and a job where she’s happy.

I gritted my teeth at the thought. Anger and loathing rose up, but not at Sonata. The emotions turned inward, ripping through me like razors and laid bare my flaws and stripped away the last vestiges of my orgasmic high. The gnawing hunger roared back into full force and thrashed around in the cage I held it in.

I had done everything I could think of to try and curb the hunger. Self-loathing had dulled its teeth, but it was still flesh-rendingly painful. I made forays into self-gratification, but plain masturbation never held it off long enough for me to even fall asleep with any level of contentment.

Auto-erotic asphyxiation had granted me some relief, the high of oxygen deprivation and sexual release allowed me to ride without the hunger showing its face and slip blissfully away. I had continued this for several weeks until one night the slip knot I had tied in the curtain rope didn’t slip loose as I slumped against the wall. The terror killed my high and following my release from the curtain rope the self-hate taunted me with the hanging specter of my death, and yet, the prospect…

The prospect seemed preferable at times. I had faded lines on one wrist to bear testament to it.

I recognized the symptoms of depression. I was well read and bright enough. But intellectual knowledge pales when facing the dark well of self-pity and despair. I hated myself for not being stronger. I hated my cowardice that had stopped me from drawing the knife across deeper.

I followed every lead I could find. I joined a local dungeon and was introduced to suspension and impact play. Neither did much for me, but sensory play…

Electro-stimulation triggered heightened awareness on tactile impressions and feeling various textures kept my brain engaged beyond the thought of hunger. Ribbons slithering, leather crawling, wool sweeping, and other feelings sliding across my bare skin would stoke a heat that never was ignited fully.

Until one night I had felt the cold kiss of steel across my thigh. Maker, that made me jump. I managed to get my hands on a nice little knife of my own and explored the possibilities myself.

One night, I accidentally cut my inner thigh while drifting, and the shock of pain and following rush of endorphins placed the hunger in a choke hold. Nightly I would cut shallow wounds on my thighs, never too deep, knowing what remained of our healing would ensure no scars would form.

But even as I received relief from the pacing beast within, I also began to hate myself for falling to self-harm for a respite. I started to try going back to older exploits, less dangerous or embarrassing. I even tried exercise for a while, jogging around the neighborhood.

But nothing worked, and I kept going back to the knife. Soon it wasn’t just to silence the hunger, but also to make sure I could still feel at all. Fights with my sisters, frustration at yet another failed job interview, sharp words or bitter comments, they all warranted a session with a sharp edge and a locked door just so I could get some rest.

It’s nearby at all times when I’m home, which seems to be my default mode these days. I barely even leave my room. In my mind, I can hear the soft rasp and ring as I would pull it from its sheath, its cold gleam in the dim light from the streetlamp. It was seductive, and I could see now what we once offered our victims; seductive but potentially deadly all at the same time.

But it was getting to be more and more deadly and less seductive. The other night I cut a little deeper than I intended and it bled freely for minutes before healing over. The shock and surprise overrode any euphoria I received from it.

I threw it back under the edge of my mattress, fully intending to try and tough it out for a while.

But the hunger rose slowly, and my depression returned, dark thoughts bubbling to the surface as slowly and surely as the blood dripped from the cuts I placed on my thighs.

I love my sisters, and I’m happy they have figured out a way to move on. I really am.

It was just myself I hated.

Author's Note

Sometimes people are just broken, more than most. The loss of such an integral part of them can break their faith and make it difficult to see the light. This is where Aria has fallen, and where I am leaving her for now.

Rest assured, she'll rise up, just not in this chapter.

I do not, however, condone or condemn cutting. It was the next addiction on the list for Aria, one that I have seen how tightly it can hold someone, even someone who has it more together than even I do.