Wristcutter: A love story

It always begins and ends the same way: innocent intentions turned to pulchritudinous pain. Tortuous, sadistic pain. It is my addiction. I am addicted to the pain I inflict upon myself like a cutter is addicted to the blade against his skin, to the scarlet streaks that form across the flesh and to the puckered scars.

And I've given myself a lot of them: scars. But my blade of choice isn't made of metal.

It's made of emotion. 

 

Slash.

The shallow feelings that fill my bathetic sentiments with puffed air.

Slash.

Erratic, diametrical irrationality nascent from obsession.

Slash.

No sooner have the latest scars turned from pink to white than I streak them red, agitated again. 

Slash.Slash.Slash.

It feels so good: to hurt so much.

Before all those scars, now hidden behind sleeves of silence or verbally veiled according to my own semasiology. Before all this: a beautiful lamb without blemish, without scars. Now ravaged and torn by the wolves I costumed in sheep's clothing--no longer suitable for sacrifice.

SLASH.