Isabela Part 2
“My hands tremble as I kneel and search for the silver box containing the objects that can help me cope with the chaos in my head, feeding the absurd addiction that keeps me from dying. When I find the handful of razors, I throw myself in my nightgown into the shower stall. I turn on a strong, cold jet of water above my head, grabbing a rough, rectangular blade in my fingers.
My whole body shakes, trembles, and I'm crying from overwhelming jealousy and frustration.
The truth is: I’m exhausted!
There’s no shield left to protect me from the pain; there’s nothing around me that can prevent every blow I receive from breaking me completely. I’ve reached my limit, as it’s been too many hits at once. And the worst wasn’t Belladonna: the final blow is playing with feelings that shouldn’t exist, trampling on the love I still feel that has resisted everything. I’m vulnerable, and each blow I receive hits me with the force of an atomic bomb.
I hear phrase after phrase screaming in my head. All the ghosts I almost managed to exorcise are surrounding me, reminding me that I don’t deserve to be loved, that it’s okay to screw myself and suffer, that in the end, that’s all I deserve.
And it’s okay not to hold on. It’s okay to give in! I’ve held my wave for too long; it’s time to let myself drown a little. I took my last breath in his bathroom, in his arms, before suffocating, before the pain sucked me into the depths. Now, there’s nothing to remove the hands of agony clawing at my neck. I just let myself succumb to the pain.
I grip the object in my trembling fingers, positioning it against the skin filled with scars and keloid marks. I can almost tame my demons with the voices of my grandmother, Ana, my friends, reminding me that I am loved. But now, the monsters are stronger than anything. I gather my courage, feeding on my heaviest, darkest feelings, and lash out with the first cut. The excruciating pain rips a howl of agony from me. A stream of blood flows, following the water, staining the white floor with a shade of red.
It hurts. But not more than the things inside me.
So I make another cut.
And another.
I writhe against the walls, crying, feeling my body in tatters, my soul in thousands of pieces as dirty as the shower stall in my bathroom.
It’s this relief from the pain inside my body, or death.
It’s a horizontal cut to cause a stronger pain on my skin, or succumbing to the wounds reproducing within me like a plague? A dose of self-harm, or long vertical cuts to end everything once and for all?”
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