PROLOGUE
981 Words
TRIGGER WARNING:
This scene contains emotionally intense and psychologically disturbing content, including themes of self-harm and s****l trauma. Reader discretion is strongly advised. If you're feeling vulnerable or overwhelmed, please prioritize your safety and well-being.
Your mental health matters. You are not alone.
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PROLOGUE
THE HEARTH
You tie your husband's leather belt to the faucet and wrap it around your neck. The cast-iron bathtub presses against your back as you lie down, naked.
Empty. Dry. Cold. That's how you describe the bathtub.
Empty. Dry. Cold. Like your soul, wandering in the dark since you vanished into thin air a year ago. The thought alone makes your jaw tremble. Your whole body shudders. You put your hand out and grip the edge of the tub; the other holds the knife tight.
Before you set everything up in this bathroom, the first thing that came to your mind was—this has to end. You would choke yourself, stab your stomach, your heart—even your womanhood, to end it all. To end your fear. To end your pain. To end your dirty soul. To end your heart, even if it's already been shattered.
You like to think there's no way you'd get better, and it's not true that you're still worth it, as Hugo told you three months ago.
You like to think that a slow, painless death is the only thing left for you. You believe that the pain from all of it means pleasure. You can kill yourself without suffering.
Slow but painless death is ideal.
It's easier to think this way: Once you're gone, you'd be free.
You organized. You direct. There is an order in what you do.
Now, you're here. Finally, your body is yours.
You lower your body further. The leather belt tightens. A deep sense of euphoria washes over you. Your eyes roll back.
The reason you're doing this, your current situation, and the pain that's been consuming you from within are all starting to blur. Everything else seems to be slipping away.
Deep in your subconscious, you resist touching your breast—the opposite happens; you massage it with your free hand. Your eyes close, and you tease the peak.
There's no turning back, you say the moment heat races down your spine. Your back arches. Then your hand moves so slowly that it pauses between your legs.
The mind-blowing sensation when you begin to explore every contour of your flesh... almost like an illicit drug.
At that moment, you slip entirely out of reality; you reach up and slit open your upper arm with the knife, then shove a finger deep into your entrance.
You could've made it clean, small. You failed. It's long, deep, and disfigured. And you don't care; the cut bleeds easily.
Red, thick liquid... streams slowly, carefully, down from your inner arm to the side of your breast.
Even by just looking at it, a soft moan still escapes from your mouth; you could taste and smell it.. Metallic. Rustic. Almost primal.
All of this is twisted, yet so divine. It's as if your soul is dragged into the deepest part of hell, yet your body is lifted to heaven.
But you want more.
The pain is not enough.
The pleasure is not enough.
So, you twitch, trying your best to reach the blood with your chin.
Oh, God... you struggle to breathe, your neck muscles tighten. Air feels trapped behind your eyes, like pressure building with no release.
You're on the verge of passing out at this point. And it causes your fingers to move in circles inside you.
Your eyes roll back again, and your lips part. Not long after, the wet sound of release reverberates; you pull and push your finger—this time faster, harder.
For a split second, everything stills—a pause. Only the blood dripping onto porcelain continues, and the low, mechanical whirr of exhaust above you.
Just a few more seconds without air to breathe, you know that you will be dead soon, but it only pushes you to do one final full thrust. Your back arches violently away from the tub.
F*ck...
You jerk your body upward to loosen the belt—even just a little.
The pain...
The pleasure...
You've been craving these since you got home three months ago. And only thirty minutes ago when your husband touched you.
The s*x was great. It was intimate. But it wasn't enough. And you only realized that after Jean reached his orgasm.
You never came.
Now you find yourself in the bathroom, having goosebumps; you snap back to the reality of what you just did: the belt, the knife in your hand, the blood on your arm... naked in the bathtub with the sense of s****l satisfaction between your legs...
What did I just do?
You let out a quiet sob, then quickly remove Jean's belt from your neck.
You're so dirty, Heather! You're so f*cking dirty!
You know you're sick. You know that you need help.
I know...
Yet you hide every pain, every suffering, every tear. You believe you have to be tough. Jean and your daughter need you. Jean's heart condition is improving—he is improving. And Halsey is almost two years old; she's learned to speak a few words: mommy, dada, milk, and many more. She's learned to walk, nearly running around the house.
Their well-being should be prioritized. What would happen to them if you became an inconvenience?
But how? How could you stay tough? When you're going to have these urges after having s*x with Jean? You shouldn't have done this in the first place because you know—I know—you will do it again.
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Maybe dying was never the point. Maybe I only wanted to know if pain could still make me feel alive.
—Heather
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- Writer
