Why won't it just cut?!
She wonders if she really needs to dig the blade into her skin to make it bleed - bleed the desolation, the anguish, the feeling of futility. In her frustration, she tries harder and harder to slice the skin, but still only scratches. Pink scratches. Paltry. Nothing compared to the dark, cherry red she wishes would surface and run down her leg.
The scratches are prominent; it's clear she meant to hurt herself. But she wants more. She likes the way they look. Battle scars in the fight against depression, perhaps? No. She's not fighting it. Tonight she's giving in.
Everyone's entitled to their dark little secrets. Why shouldn't she?
She tries to put off the temptation to try again out of fear of being caught. But she can feel the stinging scratches, and she wants more.
I know it'll work if I just try hard enough.
She tries on other parts of her body. Drag it harder, dig it deeper.
Why won't it work??!!
One of the scratches shows tiny indications of blood.
A little bit of blood. She was almost going to give up. Tired. Disappointed. But now she feels... oddly determined. She can turn her body into the canvas for her hemorrhaging soul to paint upon with its silvery, shimmering brush.
A decent cut; she broke the skin. She just wishes it would bleed more.
Just one more cut…
It bleeds! Oh, how the strangest things bring her joy. This one's really bleeding. Maybe not oozing of her morbid life, but she's proud of it. She wants to keep on going but acknowledges that it's enough for tonight. She admires the welt-like marks on her thighs. A devilishly coy smile creeps on her face. There'll be more paintings on the canvas soon. There'll be more.