She

She's not sober anymore. It's not a mistake. She wishes she could be passed out by now, but knows it's too early.

The alcohol is flowing through her blood now, the blood dripping off her arm onto the kitchen counter. Even the ants that summer always brings are scared away.

He hid the razors...she's not sure why. Maybe he suspected this was coming again. Maybe it was a mistake. But she found one - and one is all she needs.

Her arm seems to be dripping, but blood dried in a dripping appearance is not the same as blood about to fall. It's like art. The paint is dry, but it appears to be in the process of creating something all the same.

The sleeve of pain is a new feeling, and a good one. It's different from just a few lines, what she used to do. She's going to do more.

She figures this is what a sleeve of tattoos feels like. It occurs to her that she may need a sleeve of ink to cover the marks that today will leave.

Is this romantic? Is it insane? Is it right or wrong, or neither, or both? She doesn't know, she doesn't care. All she knows is that she'll find a reason to regret it in a few days...but right now, that doesn't matter.

She needs help. She knows it. She's even brought it up, but all the nurse did was to put her on drugs. Drugs aren't the answer. Drugs are never the answer.

Alcohol, however...now there's another story. The answer to problems, no. But the answer to wanting to kill yourself? Sure. Why not, if it keeps you alive. If you're too drunk to kill yourself, why not call it beneficial.

Later, she'll be passed out on the kitchen floor, just as planned.

Blood darkens very slowly as it dries. Even when it's past the point when she can wipe it off easily, it's still red, just like it was when it first appeared. It takes a remarkably long time to change color.

The music is too loud, but the silence is too quiet. The music is a better option for a foggy brain. She can't talk herself into anything worse while overtaken by the music.

Besides, singing brings tears, and tears are healthy. So they say. She's always hated crying, for any reason, but they say you have to. So she uses drunkenness as an excuse to shed the tears.

The space between songs seems interminable, stopping before the last song is over and lasting far too long for sanity.

She's only telling you this because she knows you can't help. You're safe. She may not be.

She rereads for typos. If she can find them, she figures, and fix them, she's not drunk.