HP: Shattered glass

I walked into the bathroom, the sound of my footsteps softened by the thin socks I wore.

I glanced down at my feet, deliberating what to do about them. It was an odd thing to be concerned about, but it felt right.

『 Off. 』I decided; crouching to sit down on the whitened marble flooring beneath me.

I placed the knife I was carrying onto the ground, ignoring the grating sound the blade's edge made as it scraped across the stone tiles.

I instead focused on removing my socks, a sad smile crossing my face as I stared down at the painted toenails which were now uncovered.

They were a matte, glossy black, just like my fingernails. Painted with the colour of rebellion. My friends had suggested it.

Anything to make my parents take notice of me.

They had smiled at me endearingly after I showed them; wearing the same awful smiles they always wore.

I had been transferred the day after, and I never saw my friends again.

They thought it was a phase, and they were right.

It wasn't a genuine interest. I didn't really care.

I just wanted them to see me.

I didn't want to transfer schools. I wanted to stay with the friends I had made.

But they had arranged it without telling me, and I had no choice but to comply.

Again.

I folded my socks into two neat balls and placed them on the tiles beside me.

『 Tidily packed away. 』I thought idly.『 Just the way they taught me. 』

I picked up the knife again, gazing down at the distinct wave pattern covering the blade. Damascus steel.

There were more memories there too.

'They're the best - so I'm told, in looks and efficiency. An incredible piece of culinary equipment gifted to me by a very generous and influential man.' My father had said, brandishing it before us one night like a trophy.

In that moment, with that broad smile on his face, he had almost made me think he cared about such things.

But, in the end, my father had many trophies.

After that night, he never touched the knife again. None of us did.

It just sat there above the countertop, attached to the classy magnetic strip lining the wall, right where he had placed it after his demonstration was finished.

My mother had acted disapproving of the 'Dangerous' gift, but she didn't really care. It was just something she felt like she should say. Her dishonesty was something I had grown to notice.

Completely untouched… Until now.

I got to my feet, before walking over to the bathtub and stepping over the rim.

I lowered myself into it, leaning against the curved back; a quiet, tired sigh escaped my lips. My eyelids fluttered closed, eyes aching from the lack of sleep.

I had stayed up nearly two days for this, as I was told it was easier this way. Less painful.

The white ceramic of the tub felt cold against my bare feet.

I glanced down at the knife again, shifting my forefinger forward and pushing it against the tip of the blade.

It bled easily, a deep red bead quickly blossoming over the cut.

I brought the finger toward my lips, licking the blood from its surface.

『 Bitter. 』

Another memory.

It was bitter; similar in taste to the coffee my therapist had liked to serve me during our sessions.

I had loved the taste of that coffee, for a time.

My parents, after finally realising the state I was in, had hastily booked the appointments for me.

I had attended, unwilling at first, but gradually growing to accept that it had to be done or the adults in my life were never going to leave me alone again. The woman was nice at least.

I had told her how unhappy I was with my life, with my controlling parents. Confessed to them every single hidden feeling I had been concealing from my parents' critical stares.

And it had made me feel better, if only for a time.

I should have suspected it back then, that the therapist was on my mother's payroll.

It had taken me a few months, to notice the fact that every suggestion she had made fell wholly in line with my parents' expectations of me.

I poked and prodded, testing my theory for weeks. In the end, my conclusion was the same. The whole thing was a sham, just another one of their extensive manipulations to make me docile and obedient. To push me forward in the direction they chose, along the path they had decided.

It was at that point that I gave up ever escaping my parents' expectations of me. Even when I became an adult I didn't think it would matter, not in the slightest.

『 Me. 』

The word felt bitter in my mouth, more bitter even than the blood coating my tongue.

They never cared about 'me'. They just wanted their perfect heir. The heir to carry on their 'legacy'.

So in the end, I played along; completing every suggestion the woman offered to me without resistance. I could have sworn she looked proud by the end of it.

Eventually, after quite some time, I was declared recuperated by my therapist; much to my parents' satisfaction. Not that they meant to show it around me.

I never saw the therapist again after that, and I had never drunk coffee since.

I had grown to hate its distinct bitter taste.

I took a deep breath, raising the knife before pushing its tip deep into the inner region of my elbow. The blade's edge sank in without resistance, still dangerously sharp after all this time.

I gasped in pain, blinking away the tears that were starting to prick up in the corner of my eyes. I didn't feel so tired anymore.

Gently, slowly; I began to move the knife away from me; running the blade further along my inner forearm until the bloody gash reached my wrist.

I pulled the blade out, letting the bloodied knife fall from my grasp and clatter to the bottom of the tub loudly.

A thick stream of blood spilt out of the large gash that spanned the entire length of my firearm. The sticky red liquid ran down my limp fingertips and splashed onto the bathtub floor.

It hurt, it hurt so much.

But the worst of it was past now, and I knew that. All I had to do now was wait.

I started to cry. Silently.

『 After all this time. 』I thought, feeling a trickle of tears slide down my cheeks.『 I can finally taste it. I can taste freedom. 』

I closed my tired eyes, dreaming of the past gone by.

Of the choices I had made.

Of the lies I had told.

Of the friends who had known me.

Of what could have been.

I waited sleepily. Waited for death to come and pull me into its cold embrace.

The last thing I could remember was the comforting feeling of warmth seeping outward from my left arm.

It didn't hurt any longer.

Then it all went black.

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