Anna is low. She needs it. She wants it. She can't stand being human. So she joins her own Mile High club. 20 secons flat.
She's low. Her heart is heavy and she can't think. It's the same. Her breath hitches, and she feels the unwelcome sting behind her eyes. She almost considers doing he human thing of glaring through her watery eyes, then going off to cry. But the other, braver and less human part of her hisses for her to stay, finish. They won't break you! It roars in her head. Her jaw tightens as she stares down her mother.
"Fine," she grinds out, each letter dripping with venom. Then she sets off on the angry dishwashing, while the voice, rugged as ever, growls compliments. Good. Good. Be a rock, be stone, they can't know you. They won't! You're a good one... And so it continues. She angrily scrubbed pans, and packs the dishwasher. With one last defiant glance around the room to see that everything is in order, she walks stiff legged out of the room, and to another, her own.
Music is turned on immediately, and she flings herself on the bed. She grinds her teeth, trying to fix her need for a fix. The voice is cooing to her. But she can't. She won't. She'll save it for when needed. It doesn't control her.
She's low. Lower than five minuets ago. Her mother yelling obsinities at her, throwing her deeper. 'As soon as I can' she thinks, her mind of loud music and the empty company of her room. The voice congratulates her.
"Is this the best you can do?!" The burning sensation behind her eyes grows worse. But she pulls it back, swallowing the lump. Her eyes automatically narrow and she turns on her heel and walks out of the room.
Once she's out of sight from her mother her pace quickens and she almost dashes to her room. She's low. Her breathing quickens, and she doesn't want to give in to that burning in her head. The human part of her.
She collapses on the bed in a sitting position. She moves her clock in a hurried, desperate way. Her breathing is so fast now, her face flushed. But she isn't worried. No one can see her. No one knows.
She touches it, and relief floods her, starting ant her fingertips. She picks it up, studying it with a though of hesitation. Just do it! The voice screams. You need it! It'll be all over. She sits a little more straighter, her left arm placed on her knee, her hand clenching as she gently picks a place.
She places it by an old scar, the metal sharp and cool. She places the edge into her skin. The edge was a great was to do it, using the whole thing stings.
She presses, not to hard now. Not to hard. It isn't a death wish. She presses and draws a line with the sharp edge- all while holding her breath.
Red boils up. Spills from the cut. Her breath whooshes out, and her whole body begins to tingle. She feels better now, but not enough to get her to face the outside. But first she placed a tissue on her cut, applying pressure on the throbbing, red line. She liked the throbbing. It reminded her what it was like to feel in control.
When the bleeding stopped, she noted the error of her way. She needed to train herself.
She rolled her sleeve up higher, pressing the blade from a now disassembled shaving razor to her upper arm. She dragged it slowly a crossed her skin, her heart beat slowing, her breathing regular. She's better.
"Anna!" The shrill voice the made her low in the first place was penetrating her stress-free bubble. She sighed, and pressed the tissue to her cut, then rolled her sleeve down gingerly. "ANNA!" She could feel the need again. The agitation. But she pushed it down, brought up her acting face. She took a deep breath, paused the music and started for the door. Outside she would face more pain and anger, and even some more stinging behind her eyes.
But she didn't worry. The voice was always cooing that she could join her own Mile High club in 20 seconds flat.