Carmine's body thrummed with something so much deeper and heavier than her quickening pulse. Her vision blurred as she rifled through the cabinets, taking no measures to hide her tracks. What would be the point? It was one night, and she could just leave if they gave her too much shit for it. No. She wanted this. She needed this. And she deserved the chance to be selfish. It's not like she had anypony left to hurt, anyway.
Frustration. Combs and mane-care. Soaps and shampoos. Where were you hiding? It was hard not to slam the drawers shut, in her haste. Like she was running out of time. Every minute that water ran would only inspire more suspicion. They told her she could take as much time as she needed, but she knew it had to be done sooner rather than later. If not to avoid scrutiny, then to soothe that ache, the dreadful waves of perverse need that wracked her.
It was the bottom drawer where she found her prize. It made her heart jolt, breath catching in her throat as she laid her eyes upon those familiar blades. She recognised them, of course. The very implements that had penned the eulogy written across her fores. It was always a death, of sorts - part of her always hoped that it would be the last.
She shuddered with anticipation, digging through the little box of medical supplies. Skipping past the gauze and the bandages. She wouldn't need them. Withdrawing one little scalpel, and carefully inspecting its edge. Yes. This'd do.
She lumbered over to the shower, barely able to stand with that agonising pulse of anticipation coursing through her body. She didn't enter it yet. She took a spot by its edge, on the tile floor, leaning back against the wall and splaying her hindlegs out. Wings unfurled and pressed against the hard surface. In contact with so much of the world around her, yet somehow totally withdrawing from it.
Carmine raised her right fore. The criss-cross of scars had only grown more dense with time. Most ran width-ways. Some ran up the entire length, drawn with much crueller intent. Intent that was never met with success. Maybe one day.
Fuck. The pressure was suffocating. She struggled to breathe, brow damp with sweat and body trembling. Was it fear? It wasn't. She didn't know what it was. It was excruciating. She had to lift her other fore to her chest to calm the rancorous beating of her heart. She felt the pain in her neck, the pressure of her blood running hot through her veins. That tension she was so desperate to release. The sound of running water grew silent, replaced with a screaming, high-pitched whine.
Her breaths came sharply through an open mouth. The air she sucked in didn't hit the bottom of her lungs, even with the extra help - she worried she'd choke if she tried to rely on just her nose. It burned. It was agony. Oh, stars... She felt she might die, then and there. Before even making a single incision.
She couldn't bear to wait any longer. Her wingfeathers curled around the grip of that scalpel, and her eyes wrenched shut.
'You want it to scar, don't you? Too shallow, and it'll fade.'
Those words were burned into her mind, a mark that ran far deeper than those that marred her coat. A scar that had been branded upon her very soul. It was so much worse than anything she could do to herself.
Her wing trembled as she lifted the blade to her upturned foreleg. Her eyes trailed over the canvas laid out before her, searching for a suitably dull mark to open anew. There was precious little in the way of unmarked space. It was saved for special occasions.
Carmine hesitated, before shifting the tip of that scalpel further up her leg, to a spot that had been spared in her ruthless quest to conquer her own flesh. Today was as special as it got. Besides. She might not get another chance, if she was lucky.
One, two, three. She breathed in. Took all the air she could into her chest. She hesitated. It'd been too long, now. Breathe out. Try again. One, two, three. What are you waiting for? You know what you want. The tip of the blade bit at her coat. It was so eager. Easier to write her thoughts in blood than let them weigh on her heart. Poetry in flesh. Which of these hastily-scrawled notes would be her final letter?
Don't overthink it. You've done it a million times before.
All the air was pushed out of her lungs as she clenched her eyes shut. One. Two. Three. Breathe in. She drew the blade across her trembling fore, exposing flesh and weeping crimson that slowly dripped to the tiled floor below. It was deafening, so incredibly loud, even as the shower ran full blast mere inches from her cold spot on the ground.
It was a searing sort of pain, but at the same time, it somehow didn't hurt at all. She exhaled with that cut, the pressure escaping with her breath. Slow panting would tide her over as the worst of it passed, the stinging as her wound was exposed to the atmosphere. She nursed it, leaning her head back against the wall, ears upturned. The ring in her ears slowly faded, and the world came back to her, in sharp focus. She could breathe again.
She opened her eyes, finding herself once more in the unfamiliar bathroom. How long had it been? She couldn't say. She clung tightly to that scalpel for a moment more before dropping it, the metal clattering as it fell upon the tiled surface, a little splash into the growing pool of blood. There was a sick satisfaction in the way it splattered, a beautiful stain upon the pristine white. She wouldn't be cleaning up after herself.
She sat against the wall for a while more, just taking the time to relax. Staring over at the open cabinet across from her. She could treat the gash in her flesh whenever she wanted. She was doubtlessly familiar with the process, by now. But she never cared to. She liked it better this way.
She couldn't bring herself to rise. She knew what she was meant to be doing. Cleaning herself up, right? She'd only managed to make a bigger mess. Whatever, it could wait, and so could she - for that inevitable knock on the door.
Author's Note
This is my first time submitting a story.. anywhere, really. I hope it was a fun read - because I definitely had a time writing it. There's a kind of immense catharsis in getting the opportunity to write about these things that I can't really explain.
Inspired by Serotonin and its sequels, by TamiyaGuy. I urge you to check it out, whether or not you enjoyed my own work.
