She sat in the living room sofa, breathing slowly. Eyes melting to the wall in front of her, fingers flicking the thin metal in her tiny hands. Kicking the coffee table leg in front her of her repeatedly without realizing it, she fumed, “If only…”.
The phone rang. She had been expecting this call. She picked up the receiver with tears heavy in her eyes, and adrenaline rush shook her fragile body to the point of a slight orgasm.

fragments of shattered glass cushioned her fall
the color crimson stained her lips
the echo of her heart beating rapidly in her head
(the sound of his voice “Get up, i know you can. This is what you want, cunt. You asked for it”)

as consternation washed through her
she finds the courage to weep
she sat up, shivering in her thin summer dress,
blood flowing down the lines of her scarred arms
tears running down her flawless cheeks
she felt no pain.

Hours later he would come back to her. Smelling like a barrel of vodka and eyes as red as if he had burnt a village with weed, he knelt and embraced her, whispering sweet nothings and apologizing. She smiled, but he was oblivious to that as to her dress drenched with coagulating blood. She would tell him she’s fine and he did nothing wrong. She asked for it, she had definitely deserved it. The only antidote for mental suffering is physical pain, Karl Marx said.

She begged sometimes, but he never concedes, until she had no more reassuring words left to say. Of course physical abuse is wrong, you stupid bitch, but she had been consenting all that beatings, all the time he shove her against the wall, or rape her ,or for all the time he pressed the fragments of smashed glass into her grasp so she could cut her arms with it. She was fine with all of it.

The only sane thing left to do is leave him, they whispered. So she did. She regretted that but it’s too fucking late now.

His voice, raspy through the phone line, resonating with sublime adoration and abysmal guilt, “Sweetheart-please-come-back-I-swear-I’ll-never-hurt-you-again.”

She held the phone close, listening for the words she desperately long to hear, listening for the three magical words she’s dying to-

The sound of a bang carried itself through the radio wave. Still holding the phone close to her ear, she heard him say, “Your turn”
She hung up the phone and stared on the wall in front of her. Sitting up straight on the plush white sofa, she picked up the razorblade on the coffee table. She had stopped toying with it when she answered the call. Now the thin cold stainless steel is back in her grasp. With a sweet smile on her insipid face, dyeing the white into red, then after some time, it will magically be brown. Selfish. That’s what he was. Insane and in love, that’s what she was.