Wallflower sat on the rim of the bathtub, her gaze locked on the double-sided razor blade she had pinched between her fingers.
She didn't have to do this again. Just because she had the urge didn't mean she had to do it. She could put it down and walk away.
She had been telling herself for weeks that she at least wouldn't do it on her arms anymore, if only to give the array of scars already there some time to heal. None of the scars on her arm were all that visible, aside from one. Sunset had been teaching her more about makeup stuff, though. Maybe she could help Wallflower cover it up once it healed a little more. Sunset was nice like that. She never made a big deal out of scars that were already there. If Wallflower stayed clean a little while longer, maybe she would even be able to wear short sleeves again.
Or maybe she could throw all that away on a stupid whim.
Fuck it.
The bite of the razor didn't even phase her anymore. With a quick motion—guided by urge and instinct rather than conscious thought—blood began to bubble up. The rigid tenseness in her body lessened with every exhale as she stared at the wound, a single line of bright red amongst a backdrop of barely-faded scars. Cutting on already scarred skin didn't hurt very much. It didn't bleed much either. Within the span of half a minute, the tiny dots of blood lining the cut began to darken.
That was fine, though. One was enough. One was plenty. Wallflower could already feel the low, sweeping wave of hazy calm. She didn't need to do any more.
It wasn't very deep, and it was already among so much scar tissue. In a few days no one would be able to tell, not even her. It would be like she never did it at all.
Maybe just one more.
Another motion, once again across the field of old scars. So long as she did it there, it was fine. It barely hurt at all, though. She'd been so cautious with this cut that it barely even broke the skin. Or maybe it was because scar tissue was more resilient than undamaged skin. Was that true? She couldn't remember reading that anywhere, but it sounded true, and that was good enough for her.
The next cut was harder as Wallflower made a conscious effort to let the corner of the razor dig into her arm. Yeah, she could definitely feel that. A low, shaky sigh passed her lips as she pulled the blade away, watching the line of rising blood. Stinging sensations flared around the cut, drawing all her focus. Wallflower used her fingers to open the wound a little, coaxing out more pain, more blood, more and more—
A sharp inhale. What the hell was she doing? What happened to just one? Wallflower cursed under her breath as she set the razor on the bathroom counter beside her. She needed to stop. She didn't even have a good reason for doing it today.
That was nothing new, though. She never had a good reason to begin with.
Sunset was going to be so disappointed with her.
Wallflower stood and popped open the medicine cabinet affixed to the wall beside the sink, taking care to keep her left arm angled up so as not to bleed all over the counter. Turning away from the scowling girl in the mirror, she retrieving a roll of medical tape and a couple of cheap pharmacy-brand antiseptic swabs. Normally she would use gauze for a bandage, but she'd run out last week and never bothered to go get more. That was fine, though. The swabs could work in a pinch.
The harsh smell of isopropyl alcohol greeted her as she tore open the packet. The cold feeling of the wet pad on her skin quickly died beneath the sudden stinging rush of disinfectant on an open wound. There had been a time when doing this made Wallflower wince, but now all she could manage was a blank stare as the pain faded and the swab turned red. She tossed it in the tiny trash bin beside the counter, opened the second packet and laid the clean swab across the largest cut. The medical tape followed, completing the makeshift bandage. Hopefully it would be absorbent enough, but if not she could always swap it out later.
Slow, unsteady breaths came and went as Wallflower lowered herself to the floor of the bathroom.
Idiot.
Stupid, selfish idiot. One tiny, out-of-the-blue urge was all it took for her to throw away days of progress. She couldn't even make it a week anymore without giving in to the urges. All she had to do was literally anything else, but no, because she was a short-sighted, pathetic little freak and she did whatever the hell she wanted whenever the hell she wanted to, consequences be damned.
She really was useless, wasn't she?
But what was she supposed to do? A less stupid person would throw the blades away, but she… She couldn't do that. What if something really bad happened and she needed them?
Except it was never something really bad. If anything, it was usually nothing at all. If she really wanted to stop, she wouldn't be keeping around the source of her temptations in the first place.
Of course she wanted to stop, though! Every time Wallflower relapsed, she was left swimming in guilt for the rest of the day. Was that just because Sunset wanted her to stop? Did it really matter either way?
Sunset had once used the word "addiction" when describing what Wallflower had always seen as just a bad habit. Was Sunset right? Was that why this was so hard, because Wallflower was well and truly addicted to hurting herself?
Even if Sunset was right, there was still nothing Wallflower could do. Throwing away the blades wouldn't make a difference. Razor blades were dirt cheap—it's not like she couldn't just go get more. A half-hour walk to and from the pharmacy hardly seemed like enough of a barrier to keep her from acting on her urges.
It would still be a barrier, though. It would be thirty minutes she'd have to spend thinking about what she was doing, rather than being able to immediately shred herself to pieces within seconds of wanting to.
There was no use thinking about it. What difference did it make if she couldn't bring herself to throw the razors away in the first place? Wallflower was terrible at making herself commit to something. Knowing her, she would probably wind up digging them out of the trash a couple hours later.
She would never be able to get rid of them on her own. Pathetic as that was, she just couldn't.
But maybe she didn't have to.
Fishing her phone out of her back pocket, Wallflower unlocked it and opened her list of contacts. Right at the top was the only number she bothered to mark as a 'favorite.' For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze flicking to the red spots leaking from the makeshift bandage on her arm. If she called Sunset, she wouldn't be able to hide it. Wallflower's request would prompt Sunset to ask, and even if she didn't, lying by omission was something Wallflower was trying really hard not to do anymore.
She looked over at the razor resting on the edge of the counter, and the little orange cartridge behind it with four more individually wrapped blades. As soon as she made the call, they were as good as gone. Maybe she could hide one, just in case. Maybe Sunset was really busy today and calling her would just be bothersome. Maybe Wallflower should put the phone down and forget she ever had this stupid idea in the first place.
Or maybe, for once in her life, she could do the right thing.
Fuck it.
The phone rang once, then twice. Wallflower held her breath as the line clicked and she heard a voice from the other end.
"Hey Wallflower, what's up?" Sunset sounded as cheerful and steady as ever. She probably had no idea how much Wallflower relied on that steadiness. "Everything okay?"
"I-I, uhm…" Wallflower's reply caught in her throat, only her stiff, hitched breaths making it through. It took a moment for her to recollect herself, and Sunset remained silent the whole time. Wallflower loved that about her—she was always so patient, even when Wallflower was stupidly tripping over her own words. Finally, she got something out. "Are you busy right now…?"
"Not even a little," Sunset said. Even over the phone, her voice was so measured and gentle. "How are you doing?"
Adrenaline welled in Wallflower's stomach as she forced herself to answer. "...Not good."
"Is it the urges again?"
"Yeah." Tears tickled her cheeks as the first whimper broke free. "I-I'm so sorry Sunset, I—"
"Shhh, Wally, it's alright," Sunset soothed. "I'm on my way over, okay?"
"Y-yeah, thank you," she said. "Thank you…"
"I'm really proud of you for calling me," Sunset said.
Proud? That couldn't be right. Sunset should be ashamed of her, or at the very least annoyed. She asked Wallflower to do one little thing, but Wallflower was too pathetic to even try. She never should have bothered Sunset with this. She never should have—
"How many days did you make it this time?" Sunset's voice pulled Wallflower out of her spiral. "Four, right?"
Oh. Sunset was keeping track of the days too. Wallflower wasn't really sure how to feel about that. Grateful? Judged? Cared for? Maybe all of the above. "Uhm, yeah," she said. "Four days."
"Four days, that's great!" If Wallflower didn't know Sunset as well as she did, she'd have sworn that praise was a forced lie. Sunset wouldn't lie to her, though, even if sometimes Wallflower wished she would.
"It's nowhere close to where I was a few months ago," Wallflower said, wiping the tears off her cheek. "I can't even make it a week anymore."
"But it shows you're trying," Sunset said. "Even though it's really, really hard, you're still trying. I'm proud of you for that, too."
Wallflower let out a long, shuddering exhale. Some stupid, hateful thing in the back of her head wanted to argue, to tell Sunset she was wrong, that she should hate her and be disgusted by her and never bother with her again. It wouldn't be the first time she told Sunset all those things, but Sunset just ignored her and kept coming back every time, even though Wallflower didn't deserve it.
Whether she deserved it or not, she had already come this far. May as well make the most of it.
"When you get here, uhm…" Wallflower could barely hear her own voice. "I was hoping you could maybe… Th-that you could…"
Again, Sunset stayed silent. She was always so patient, so kind, even when Wallflower's stupid brain short-circuited and she kept fumbling through broken words.
She swallowed as much of her doubts and fears and anxiety as she could and forced herself to start over. "I-I want to throw them out," she said. "The razors, I mean—but… But I can't, I… I can't." A long, drawn-out breath, and then another. "I know this is really stupid, b-but when you get here, c-could you…?"
"Of course, Wally," Sunset said. Wallflower could practically hear her smiling. "That's not stupid at all. I'll take them with me when I leave, okay?"
"Yeah, okay." Wallflower nodded, despite being alone on the bathroom floor. "Th-thank you."
"I'll be there soon," Sunset said. "Like five minutes, tops. If you want, I can order us a pizza or something when I get there. Does that sound good?"
As she shakily stood up, Wallflower took in the aftermath laid out before her—razor blades, empty packets of disinfectant, a bloodied alcohol swab taped to her arm… All evidence of her being a shallow, useless fuckup. And yet, despite her blatant failure being plainly visible all around, she knew Sunset wouldn't care. Sunset, who was now using Wallflower's shameful relapse as grounds to spend an evening together, sharing dinner and chatting and hanging out and… And…
Wallflower didn't deserve that, not after what she did. It didn't make sense. None of this made any sense.
But… Maybe it didn't have to.
She took a deep breath and whispered, "Okay."
The next few minutes were spent redressing the cuts on her arm, tossing the bloodied bandage and generally doing her best to clean up around her bedroom. Just as she plugged her laptop in—Sunset would probably suggest streaming something later—she heard the doorbell ring. Wallflower rushed to the door and pulled it open. Blue eyes met her own, only to trail down to the uncovered bandage hanging at Wallflower's side.
A second later, Wallflower was wrapped up in a comforting hug, surrounded by warmth and compassion and a repeating promise that she was okay, that it would all be okay. Tears fought to the front of her eyes as Sunset held her close, gently stroking her back as the first of Wallflower's whimpered apologies and gratitudes muddled together into short, sorrowful sobs.
She clung to Sunset like her life depended on it, her cries muffled against Sunset's shoulder. As Sunset's soft, encouraging whispers continued, the last of Wallflower's composure evaporated, and she collapsed into the embrace.
