Hell

Bretta dug the exacto knife out of her artist's case, replaced the dull blade she'd used to cut matboard, swabbed the new blade with rubbing alcohol and set it on the rim of the bath tub.

The smell akin to grandma's peach cobbler filled the air from the bubble bath foaming under the running tap. She stripped and stepped into the bubbles.

Iodine stained her right bicep as she scrubbed it raw. The knife glinting in her peripheral vision.

It had been three years since she'd given all her knifes and blades to a friend, a year since she'd drawn the iron across her hand several times, and three months since she'd declared herself broken of this destructive habit.

She grasped the blade in her left hand, because she was less likely to cut too deep with the weaker hand. She drew it down the curve of her muscle, watching red blossom to the surface. She dipped the blade in the steaming water and set it on the edge again.

Bretta welcomed the blessed sting as she slipped down into the water. The pain washed away pain. The sting washed away all self-loathing thoughts.

Bretta smiled - soothed and alive.

Friends - remember I do write fiction! I'm fine. No iodine, no blades.