This is something that I did not share in Reed & Liana’s first book, “Wait For Me”. If you have not read the book, then I will tell you that this is a ‘spoiler’. STOP~~~ Come back and read this after you have read the book.
This short story explains why Liana found herself to believe that cutting herself would help with the memories. This is raw and unedited.
I tried to fight, but I just couldn’t win.
I’d never win.
He was here…in my home.
He was here to deliver a message.
I sat straight up in the bed, grabbing a pillow in the process; so that I could scream my terror into the soft material, hoping that it would muffle the sound. Dallas would be in my room within seconds if he’d heard any distress coming from under my door.
Sweat rolled down my brow, tickling as it reached my neck. I growled in frustration at the nightmares I’d been having lately. Tears pricked my vision, and I finally let them fall. The pain of remembering was getting too hard to handle lately. I needed to scream. I wanted to fight, but I was alone. I ached from my attack, inside and out.
Rolling out of the bed, I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and squinted when the light brightened the room. When I glanced in the mirror, I groaned from the way I looked. My eyes were ringed with gray circles, my lips were not the full, vibrant color of red that they’d always been. My cheeks were so sunken in that I looked like a corpse.
I turned the cold water on in the sink and just splashed it on my face, over and over again, praying it would shock away the horrible visions from my most recent nightmare.
The newest ones were worse than any of the ones before. All of the other dreams were of me running away. These…these were of the attack. They were not dreams, because dreams were manifestations of your imagination. These things I saw in my sleep were the actual attack. The past few weeks, every time I closed my eyes, I saw my attacker as he did the worst possible thing he could’ve done to get his message to my best friend, Mary. She was his intended target. I was just revenge, or some act of hate due to his inability to get to her.
No, this was no dream, or even a nightmare. I was reliving the night I was raped at the hands of that monster.
I gritted my teeth and tried to think of a thousand different things that didn’t involve what had happened to me. My hair was a knotted mess and I reached blindly into the drawer for my brush.
“Ow,” I yelped, when I felt something slice into the tip of my finger.
Sensations come over me when I jerked my hand free of the drawer. When my tired eyes focused on my finger, I was suddenly mesmerized by the bead of blood that welled up on the end. Deep crimson trickled down and over my palm, the blood leaving a cool trail in its wake. I smiled as the tiny trail curved over my wrist and slowed as it came to rest at the center of my forearm.
Taking my other hand, I squeezed the tip of my finger, forcing the blood from my body. The pain inside my chest eased as I watched as another stream of blood oozed from my finger and made a trail similar to the one before. I felt free. The pain was gone, but only for a moment.
Because when the wound closed and the blood stopped flowing…the memories returned.
I slid down to the floor, the back of my legs flinched as they touched the cold tile. I was stunned at how good it felt to let the blood take away the memories…the pain.
I wanted more. I needed more. Would this stop the nightmares? If I cut myself, just a little to let it out, that would be okay? Right? It couldn’t hurt just to try it again. Maybe just once, but where? I’d never mark my skin where anyone could see it. If I could just do it a little, in private, then Dallas wouldn’t notice it and go running to Reed.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was in my kitchen, quiet as a mouse, searching for something sharp. I looked in a drawer that someone had left some tools in and found a pack of blades, new ones. The tiny piece of metal, covered in a little piece of cardboard, called to me saying it would be okay. Just one time…just one time.
Back in the bathroom, I nervously, but quickly, shed my clothing, not bothering with looking in the mirror. I knew I looked like a skeleton, but right now, I just wanted the memories gone.
It was time to purge them.
It was time to let them bleed out.
An hour later, I was still sitting in the tub, my hand carefully holding on to the blade. I couldn’t do it. I was a coward. Did I want the memories to drive me insane?
I didn’t even close my eyes when I sliced into the flesh on the inside of my leg, so close to my sex that it couldn’t be seen, but low enough that my panties wouldn’t irritate it. I watched as the blood flowed out of the wound and into the dry bathtub, leaving red streaks as it followed the slight downhill slope to the drain.
I smiled to myself.
I would drain the memories away.
Resting my head on the back of the tub, I closed my eyes and smiled, because for once…I was at peace.
Disclaimer: By no means do I condone the above behavior. The written material is fiction and is a product of the writer’s imagination. If you know someone, or are the one who is cutting themselves, there is help out there. This is never an answer. I urge you to contact a medical provider to seek help for this problem. It is never okay to hurt yourself….ever.