I ran straight to the school bathroom, ripping my bag off my shoulder.
You see, I always keep a spare razor on me at all times.
I grabbed it from my backpack and smiled at my old friend. I raise up my sleeves and watch it cut through my skin.
Drawing blood. It falls every so slowly that I can hear my skin cry.
At least my skin can cry, I can't.
The blood begins to drop onto the ground but I find it soothing.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It's nice to find a soft noise.
Not a bullet trigger being pulled or screams or my own skin crying, it was a dripping noise that was soothing to me.
But the softness was interrupted when the bathroom door creaked open.