The Urge

She sat, crying alone, in her bedroom. The small bed felt like an ocean swallowing her whole. The emptiness and hurt grew inside her, filling her, crushing her. Her husband slept quietly on the couch in the living room, just a thin wall separating the two. Still, he didn't hear her sobs, her crying out for comfort. She had tried to get him to come to bed, begged him several times. Finally she gave him the ultimatum of either coming to bed or sleeping on the couch. He chose the couch. Her heart sank, wishing he would choose to be near her. She stormed off to her room and sat on the bed. The notebooks in front of her were daunting. At first she had planned to write while he slept, now all inspiration had left her. The numbness gave way to anger. Anger that he would choose the uncomfortable couch. Anger that she would once again be sleeping alone. Anger that she had no one to turn to and confide in. She took medicine hoping it would help. Triple the dose of Klonopin, 4x the dose of her sleeping pill, twice the dose of her antidepressant. She waited for them to kick in but they weren't doing anything for her. Still there was one thing, one bad habit she had tried so hard to avoid, that she could turn to. The blade. It had been almost two months since she had turned to her 'old friend' to make the pain stop. As the pain built, she stopped caring about being clean. She didn't care about the repercussions, the disappointment from her counselor. She needed comfort and that was the only thing she knew to turn to. She found her old box hidden in the back of the closet. All of the necessary tools were there. The blade, the washcloth, the hand sanitizer, the bandages. She paused for a moment, trying to think of anything else to help but there was nothing. She cleaned her skin, then the blade. Slowly she slid the glinting metal across her pale skin. There was a prick of pain but nothing more. No release like many times before. She cleaned the cut, still no pain. She scratched the cut, needing to see the blood, needing something to make her feel alive. Finally a thin line of red appeared. She continued to stretch the skin until more blood came up. It wasn't enough but she cleaned the wound and stopped the bleeding. After putting her tools under the bed, within reach if she should need them again, she went back to the notebooks. Still there was no inspiration, no urge to even try to review and edit her book. Frustratedly, she stormed into her study and lit up a cigarette. Nothing was going to calm this pain and anger.