I let my rebellious side take control. The wound may be deep, but it's still nothing. |
It’s Nothing By xXx MissHaunted-MoonLight xXx Summary: I let my rebellious side take control. The wound may be deep, but it's still nothing. ________________________________________ It's Nothing The wound is deep. Stinging, maiming, Burning my inhibitions sky-high As silver blade pierces white skin. Scarlet lifeblood, dripping like water, Droplet after droplet, Always falling. Never ceasing its endless voyage down my left arm. Why cut the right? Cutting left-handed is restricting. So I settle for cutting right-handed And slice open my left arm Where the blade will reach. Where it will cut into the skin deep. For cutting the left is child’s-play. The knife falls fast and the pain vanishes, Replaced by a tolerable sting. And I watch as Scarlet lifeblood drips like water, Droplet after droplet, Always falling. Minutes pass by and There’s a screech of brakes. Mum and Dad have returned with the midget. Damn. With haste the blade is wiped clean And replaced in the knife-stand as The door handle turns. Sister is crying And father is fuming While mother is gravely silent. Nothing new there. I cradle my left arm slightly, Then catch myself and hastily tug my sleeve down, Willing my right hand To release Its death grip On the bleeding wound. They don’t need to see. Only I need to see. My little secret. But eagle-eyes has noticed. And being the younger sibling, she squeals. Oh, Would that I were younger. Young ones squeal and it’s called ‘The Right Thing’. Like hell It’s the right thing These days. “What’s that?” Mum asks, Suspicion rich and piercing, The words slicing into My very soul Harsher than the blade could have done. Dad is scowling and Sister is smirking That victorious smirk of hers, Tears miraculously Gone from view. Midget. I could squash her If I wanted to. But I don’t. Instead I smile My own winning smile, The puppy-dog look that Catches all adults Off guard. Even at seize ans* They still Fall for it. Retreating from the kitchen with One final glance at The knife, From where it smiles Up at me alongside its fellow gleaming slicers, I let my Rebellious side Take control. “It’s nothing.” * ‘seize ans’ - French for sixteen years. |