I hate him.
Twenty years of marriage to a fool. A pathetic excuse of a man and yet here I am, washing his shit-stained pants in the sink because he forgot to call out for a plumber. Of course, it’s not for me to fix, I am here only to feed him and clean the house and look after the kids.
I took to the bathroom this afternoon. Not long after I had downed a hastily made martini and put the television on mute. I sat on the toilet seat with the razor blade in my hand. I lifted up my skirt and began to run the fine metal across the skin of my inner thigh. It felt sublime. The initial coolness of the blade followed by the sharp pain. Warm blood trickling down my thigh.
It was intoxicating.
I repeated the pleasure three more times – creating pretty parallel markings next to the thin white scars of past indulgences. I carefully dabbed at the blood with some tissue. The paper bloomed with crimson warmth and I felt a tingle of excitement in my crotch. Before I disposed of it, I cautiously placed the freshly stained tissue into my underwear, I wanted to be close to the departed life-force that had once run through my veins. I wanted to keep it there longer but I had things to do. I had already formed a plan of action. There were things to do before that bastard got home