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warning: this story contains mature content. If you are uncomfortable with course language, self harm, suicide or mild sex scenes then this story ain't for you.[/disc]
[i]The cold blade obediently glided across the creamy white flesh, warm beaded drops of blood instantly trickled down covering the white tiled bathroom floor heavily sighing the young girl leaned her head back against the moon-reflected bathtub. Slowly closing her weary eyes, with her freshly cut arms sprawled out beside her, the blood dripping steadily down; releasing that ugly monster inside of her, washing away her troubles, bringing her back to a quiet calm. The moon’s hoary glow shone through the opened window turning the white tiles to a shimmering blue. Tired, but awake and alert, the girl opened her deep-set sable eyes before looking up out the bare window.
~Alone. Always alone. No-one to save me. Just alone.~
Suffering in her emotions the young girl looked down at the crimson streaked mess she had just inflicted upon herself.
PULLING ON A LONG SLEEVED BLOUSE, HIDING THE SCARS AND FRESH
Wounds that littered her smooth toned skin. Sighing deeply –nauseous at the prospect of another day, Paxton O’Reilly ambled off in the direction of the brightly sun-lit bathroom.
Paxton glanced intently at the spot where she had slashed and bled the night before…the tiles were sparkling white now, not grimsome red, no visible sign of evidence that she had cut apart from the gruesome marks tattooed over her once unscarred body.
Rubbing her sore swollen arms, Paxton whispered to herself…
“Pretty little lines…that never wash off.”
Turning the dials on the basin, the steady run of the tap water swirled and gurgled down the dark drain.
Cupping her hands, she brought a considerable amount of water to her face. Opening her eyes she looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of her through water obscured eyelashes.
She felt like *shit*
“Hurry up, damn’ it. Yer gonna make me late…Jesus.”
Ryan stated coldly as he ducked his head in through the slightly opened door.
“Okay. I’m comin’” She replied, agitated by the tone of her brothers voice. Wiping her face with her sleeve Paxton hastily scooped up her bag that was placed just outside of the bathroom door.
Paxton O’Reilly wasn’t one to care all that much for acceptance. She was her own person.
Cheeky, confident, rebellious and bold to her superiors. She liked to challenge those in higher authority than her; she enjoyed pissing them off. But she was also troubled. Suffering from depression since she was fourteen, she hid the illness well, it was a talent of her’s to hide her true feelings. The self-inflicted scars were the guilty proof.
Pitching a cigarette, Paxton plunked down in the backseat of the car.
“I need ye to pick yer sista’ up arfta school t’day, okay?” Colleen O’Reilly said staring at her eldest daughter in the rear-view mirror.
“Can ye please pick yer sista’ up from school this arfta’ noon?”
“Fine.” Paxton replied slightly agitated, averting her attention back out the window before lighting the cancerous roll.
The heavy plod of combat boots lumbered at a steady rhythm. O’Reilly intently listened to the sound of her own feet against the concreted ground as she walked through the crowded schoolyard.
Paxton hated it there- it was her goal to get out. She hated everything about it; the attitudes, people, even the goddamn weather, she resented the judgmental country, but most of all she resented her parents for forcing her to move to this foreign place.
She missed home. Sweet, sweet home. Shit-talking, beer-swelling, back-slapping Ireland.
Paxton O’Reilly was a straightforward Irish gal through and through. Her greatest pleasure was getting pissed on ‘The Black Stuff’ every night as if it were the start of a new millennium.