I lay on the floor, curled up in a ball, fist clenched around my blade. I'm fighting the urge to cut. The same words keep running through my head. "You promised him..." I can't breathe. I see blood running down the walls. Of course, I know that it's not real, but it's so...promising. I want the pain. I want the scar. I sit up to sit cross legged and I pull up my sleeve. I make the tiniest cut and feel instant relief. I want more now. I cut again, only this time, I cut deeper, drawing blood. I watch it run down my arm and onto my white carpet, making a lovely stain. It eventually stops bleeding on its own. I sit there for a while, running my fingers along the scar that has formed. How lovely, I think. Such a beautiful little scar. I think about him and I start to cry softly. How could I do this to him? I promised! I start sobbing, gasping for air. There isn't any oxygen left. I don't deserve to breathe. I start to wonder why I even cut in the first place. I can't remember, but at the time the blade was calling me. I needed it. I needed comfort when there were no arms to hold me and nothing to make me feel safe. I feel light as a feather and totally unworthy all at the same time. I'm destroying myself for my own sanity. It isn't right, I know that, but I can't help it. In those few weak moments when I feel like no one cares, like I have no one to keep me safe, when no one loves me... I lose control. I drown in my own blood and I pay the price by wearing my scars, not proudly, where ever I go.