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I felt anger coursing through my veins. There was red everywhere. Some of it could have been mine, I wasn't really sure. But I honestly didn't think I cared, either. I couldn't feel any pain now, not that I wouldn't in the future. Maybe I wouldn't. What would be the point? Pain is always there, why not continue to feel it? All the time. I felt the blade in my hand become heavier. It had a new purpose. I rose the knife to my arms, to the soft flesh that sat there, waiting. Tingling in anticipation. What would be the outcome? Did I even care?

As I made the first cut, I could feel the immediate relief. The blood pouring out of the wound, something I had made, something I had control over. All my emotions were pouring out with that blood. Those first few drops were liberating. I walked towards the window, making slices along my arms as I did. Anywhere there was skin, there was now blood. Fleshy pale to a dark, urgent red. I felt better. I knew that self-harm was wrong. But is it really wrong if you can't feel it? Pain is circumstantial.

I looked around the room I was in, the walls were painted with that same beautiful red colour. I loved it. I craved it. And I knew exactly where to get more of it.

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