Writing

One Last Time

Courtesy of Facebook page Journalister. 13775969_1017877768295350_5643151165472541817_n

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and steadied herself. “One last time,” she whispered to herself. 

One. Last. Time.

One last time, she felt all this pain. This wretchedness, that crawled into her skin every night, faithfully like a overattached being, as she slept in her cold plush, canopy bed at night. She picked up the razor and brushed it against her skin, just so she knew she could feel the cold steel scraping her arm, making chalk-white lines.

The door hammered. “Are you done?” A male voice called out.

“Soon, Denny, soon!”

She was glad that he cared enough about her. He wasn’t a bad guy, although he kept her under lock and key, sometimes?

He took her out to all the restuarants she said she wanted. If she indicated interest in a new film or book, he got it for her, no questions asked. He wasn’t stingy with his money. He took her out for real dates, not knowing- or at least not pretending to know, she was looking for opportunities to leave and never come back.

She sighed, floundering. Was it so bad, after all?

Her mind disagreed. Her skin crawled again and this time her heart lurched. Bile rose to her throat and she raced for the toilet bowl, where nothing came up, as she instinctively recalled what he made her do, every time, though she voiced her objections.

If she questioned herself, now she was sure of it.

Two years was enough. She couldn’ t be his captive anymore.

A searing pain soared through her neck as she ran the razor. Collapsing on the floor, she went out like a light, with a serene smile, eyes open.

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