T/W self harm/cutting with detail

I walked in on her cutting early the next morning. She wasn't trying very hard to hide it, taking refuge in the finished Little Mermaid room with her stuffed fox and some of Bella's vodka. 

I don't know if she wanted to be found or if she just didn't care, but the door wasn't even closed completely when I walked by on my way to get coffee. All we had over in the cottage was instant.  

Reed had tossed and turned all night, waking me up repeatedly, and I had given up trying to sleep. He'd taken a sleeping pill at four because I'd basically made him, and was still out cold.

I noticed the door and pushed it open the rest of the way without thinking, not expecting anyone to be inside. But there she was, a chunk of brown beer bottle in her right hand, drawing it hard across her own thigh. There was already blood on both of her legs, and a white dish towel stained red next to her. She sat in a tank top and running shorts.

She looked up, and her eyes looked feral. "Join me?" She held out the piece of glass.

I was so triggered by it all that my mouth actually watered at the thought, while at the same time my head swam because of the blood. I was never good with other people's blood. "Fuck," I said, and my voice was far away. My ears rang, and I felt myself stagger in that pre-fainting sense of unreality as I dropped to one knee while fighting to stay conscious.

"Addy," she said, her voice far too. "Addy, Addy, don't pass out for fuck's sake, oh my God," and she laughing. "Only you would make this about you."

The black was receding and I could feel pins and needles all over, like my whole body had fallen asleep. I was indeed kneeling on the floor. My stomach churned. I finally looked at her. 

She'd put the glass out of sight and was casually wiping her legs with the cloth. "Merry Christmas," she said humorlessly, which was strange given the smile still on her face.

"Who are you?" I asked without thinking, on a hunch. I sat back on my butt and hugged my knees. I still felt weak.

She smiled wider. "You already know about us? My, she's getting chatty. You can call me the Cutter, how about that." She held up the bloody glass again. "You're a razor girl yourself, I'm sure. The neat, pretty lines." She held up the glass again, turning it this way and that. "You should really try chunky glass. It's the best of the best." She pressed the corner to a spot just above her knee.

"Stop," I said, too loudly. "Please." I stood, wobbly, and moved to her side. Without hesitating I took the piece from her and tossed it across the room, wiping the blood on my pants. "Just, don't. Let Ari out, or whatever."

"Nah," she said, undisturbed by the loss of her tool. She pressed the cloth to her thigh again. "She's all whiny today, wants her mommy." She laughed as she rolled her eyes and it rose goosebumps on my limbs and skull. "I can't understand that shit. It's Mommy Dearest's fault we were there in the first place, not to mention the whole failing-to-protect-us thing." She suddenly had a cigarette between her lips and was lighting it.

I was in way over my head in this situation. I hesitated to say or do anything for fear of making it worse. My heart was beating too fast, my palms slick.

She appraised me, amusement in her voice. "You are really pretty. Shame about that fire." She liked the expression on my face and laughed. "Don't trip; I'm not interested in sex. I mean, none of us is, but Vixy has to pretend 'cause it's her job." She blew out smoke rings, one after another. "I mean, when we're hypersexual we like it. Or not like it, just can't get enough. So . . . what? You look nosy. I'll answer shit for you, I don't care. We don't have anything to hide."

I so did not want to be in this position. "That's okay," I said, neutrally. I gestured to the rag and her bloody legs. "You gonna put something on that? You done? What's the deal."

She didn't respond, looking at her hand cleaning up blood. There were six fresh, jagged cuts, and the way she wiped had to hurt a lot but the look on her face was relaxed, blissful even.

It made it worse that I totally got it.

I started to get up, to get someone, but her voice stopped me. "Do you ever just lay awake at night and wait so long for the sun to come up? And you know it's going to, because it always has, but you won't believe it till you see it?" Her cigarette dangled forgotten from her left hand.

"Yeah," I said, because it as true.

"Yeah," she said, folding the towel primly and setting it down. She noticed the cigarette and hit it. "Ah, that's good." She turned her attention on me again and my anxiety rose up another few notches. "Kick back, I'm done being here for now. Would do the crybaby a favor and stay here all day but I'm bored with it. Sayonara, cicatrice."

Hot anger flooded me at being called scar, which was her intention, but before I could say anything her whole entire face changed and she looked normal again. "The fuck?" She looked at the cigarette, which was almost a burning filter at this point, and then winced at what was probably pain from the fresh wounds hitting her. "Fuck." She noticed me as she licked her fingers and pinched the filter. "I see you've met the Cutter."

"Yeah," I said again, trying and failing to keep all the emotions off my face. Jesus, this poor fucking kid. What the hell. "She's a real treasure. Called me scar."

She glanced at a little apprehensively as she picked up the cloth and blotted some blood. "Well, that's not my fault, so don't 'end' me, okay?"

A small laugh escaped me. "I won't." I shifted position so I was more comfortable. "That was pretty, um . . . "

"Crazy?" She side eyed me but she was smiling a little. "The word defines me. Or I define it. Ow, fuck. Ow. I've seen a video of her before. It is crazy. She is. We are."

"Is it, like, always her? That does the cutting?" The heater kicked on and began blowing warm air at us from the floor vent. She scooted over to sit near it, placing her bare feet on it.

"Mostly. Not always." Pat, pat. "She started it. I adopted it. I guess we share it. It doesn't hurt her when she does it, though."

"This is so fuckin' weird," I said, mildly. It was all pretty surreal on so little sleep.  "No offense."

She shrugged. "None taken."

"You don't know what she does, when she's, what, in charge or whatever?"

She drank some of the pint sitting there, the same kind I stocked for Bella. "Nope. Only when the Narrator is forward. Some of the others know about me and know what I do and say. I don't have that luxury."

I scratched a bit of paint off where it had gone out of a line. "She knows about you, yeah. Said you're getting chatty."

She made a jerking off motion. "Fuck her. She has all the fun with none of the pain."

This was all too strange for me. I couldn't imagine living it. "You okay?" I gestured to her legs.

She raised an eyebrow. "Of course I'm okay. Aren't you when you do it?"

I didn't detect sarcasm but it had to be there. "Um, no, not really. I mean, by the time I pick up that razor, my anxiety's so bad I don't care what it takes to make it less."

That seemed like a new idea to her. "Really? I do it 'cause I don't like to remember. I have a memory keeper, kind of, so I don't have to really ever think about things that have happened. It brings her out to like, gather up the memories again, if I'm thinking too much. She helps me." She pressed the cloth. "And the Narrator can kind of, I don't know, take out the stories and tell them without me really thinking about them or hearing them. I don't have words to explain it. It just happens." She smiled brilliantly at me and unwrapped her bun, rewrapping it and snapping the hair tie around it. "Also, totally knew you were a razor girl."

"Yeah, she called that too."

"Can I see?" Her request was flippant but she was immediately vulnerable with it, laid open with the hunger of seeing someone like her.

Again, I got it.

I stood up and pulled the string on my pajama pants, untying the floppy bow that held them up. I put a trembling finger under the waistband and tugged, so the elastic expanded. They dropped and I stood there in my unzipped hoodie, Reed's french fry shirt, and my TMNT underwear.

It wiped the smiled off her face. She stared as I stood stiffly, arms crossed for a few moments. "Okay?" I pulled them back up and tied the bow tightly. "Haven't done it since before we went to Canada. November fifth."

She smirked. "The day we left early for London."

I resisted the urge to slap the look off her face. "Sure," I said, noncommitally so she didn't see she got a rise out of me. "Anyways, if we're done here." I wasn't going to let her throw stuff in my face. I moved to leave.

She saw. "Look, I can't be held responsible for what my face does. I have zero control over my expressions, so get over it. All my energy goes towards holding on to staying me. I do it too, when he leaves. To go to you." She rolled her eyes. "I guess it's probably from anxiety. Who the fuck knows." She laughed. "I'm telling you, all the therapy in the world, man, all of the meds, and it barely helps at all."

I didn't know when I'd become like a pseudo big sis to this completely broken person, but I wished someone else had the honors because I didn't want to deal with it. "I need coffee," I said, which was probably a shitty response, but it was what I had. "Speaking of meds, put something on those, and c'mon."

"Nah," she said, echoing her alter personality. "I'm going to bed. Fuck this holiday. Church later!"

She drained the last of the vodka and saluted me as she stood, taking the bloody dish towel with her as she went past me, bumping me with her shoulder but not hard. I got the piece of glass I'd thrown in the corner, holding it gingerly. The urge to draw it down my arm, where I didn't even cut, overwhelmed me for a split second but passed and I swallowed, then went to find coffee. Fuck that noise.