Your Song

It was that feeling. That awful gut wrenching feeling. It was when her heart raced so fast she couldn't feel the beats, just the terrible, knife-like pain. The gathering bead of sweat empracing her upper lip spiraled down, leaking salt onto her tastebuds, and she clamped her hands over her stomach. Her legs pulsated to a steady beat of a nonexistent drum, feeling each and every pump of her heart circulate through the struggling veins. Her tongue scraped the roof of her dehydrated mouth trying to find salivary moisture. She crawled her way along the rough brown carpetry, forcing one hand in front of the other, feeling spikes each and every stroke. She retched into the cool porcelain. The contents stared back at her through the glassy water. It faintly reminded her of a modern painting, but the thought just made her more ill. She fought gravity until she was bent over the sink, twisting the speckled knobs and sending clear liquid rushing in the basin. Shoving her head forwards, a rush sent her sputtering back. She wanted to just hold her head under, nothing more than to down the idle bottle of friendly Asprins next to her clammy hand, but she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to take that final step. Then she heard it. His song was playing. Her younger sister had blasted the radio and his song happened to be playing. Her hands blindly groped the granite countertop until reaching the final destination: the razorblade. She took its edge and pulled it along the patterned surface of her wrist. The line was accompanied by the red, the sweet red. The blood greedily lapped up white skin. Somehow the pain brought her comfort. With her back to the seafoam tiles, she slid down the wall with a streak of wetness following, palms up, eyes closed, humming along.