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Critique Archive 0037:
Maren sat on the bathroom floor often.
She liked to feel the cold floor through the fabric of her clothes and hear the quiet echo of closed in noises bouncing off the hard tile walls. Sometimes she even liked to turn the shower on, to hide the sound of her crying.
But today isn't a day of turning on the shower; She doesn't want the sound to go down the drain with the wasted water.
All she wants is to be alone. Just Maren and the razor.
The small sharp piece of metal gleamed invitingly on the white tile as she stared at the back of the shut door. The wood's grain patterns she'd memorized seemed a dull place to being focusing on and she felt tears come as she realizing what she was about to do.
Then she criticized herself for being a coward picked the small blade up, grasping it firmly between her forefingers and thumb and immediately brought it down and across the thin layers of skin stretched over her left wrist.
The flesh opened and spewed up life, blood, and she hissed, dropping the blade to the ground.
The gash burned harsh and hard like a fire consuming her nerves, making her writhe in pain.
“Ah. Ah. Ah.” she panted, her eyes wide. But slowly the burning faded out and she felt herself relax.
She knew it was coming, the release, and she welcomed the growing wooziness as she felt herself become weaker and weaker.
She took one last look through droopy eyes at the enlarging scarlet puddle covering the stark white tile.
“Mine...” She mumbled, watching her blood spreading outward until she could no longer hold onto consciousness and she slumped down, sprawled over the wet floor.