The Shattered Claw (500 words)

Trigger Warnings: dissociation, pov shift, self harm, like actual self harm, vaguely suggestive

We twisted and turned in agony, desperate to escape the emotions that haunted us. Reality fragmenting, past and present and future, selves disappointed with life, raging against the circumstances of our existence. The room around us started to fade, eyes squeezed shut to force out the reminder.

She reached out towards the ceiling of our room, imagining a dagger materializing within her grasp. A common response to situations such as these.

She plunged it towards our stomach, twisting on impact, hoping desperately for some sort of relief, but none came. It wasn’t real.

Scrambling, grasping at straws, yearning for that sensation, she twisted our hand into a claw and brought it near our wrist. She wouldn’t actually do it - it was just to sate her desire. And so, she swiped the claw.

For a moment, we didn’t realize what had happened. A brief instant flashed where she drank in the pain she had so desperately hoped for, unsure of why it had finally yielded.

But our arm told the tale of two small scratches, carved into the flesh.

Panic.

Which then subsided.

And then resurged.

Did this count as self harm?

Would we have to tell our therapist about this?

And then: If this was a relapse, why did it have to be so small and insignificant of a breach?

Drunk on the pleasure of the stinging cuts, she came around to a new set of thoughts.

Why shouldn’t I go further now? If we’ve already relapsed, why shouldn’t I go the rest of the way?

Why not indulge a bit more.

And so, she brought the claw to our wrist once more, and swiped again, more forcefully, with piercing intent.

And again,

And again,

And again,

And again,

And again,

And again.

A tenseness grew rapidly through the body, giving in to the satisfaction of the increasingly burning wrist dragging us ever closer to lucidity.

And again,

And again,

And again,

And again.

Til the tenseness reached its peak and erupted, arcing through the body, finally sating her incessant desire.

As the body relaxed, the pain emanating from our wrist gained clarity. Opening our eyes, the hues in the room shifted and danced around, until they settled on a strikingly vibrant palette.

I turned over, glancing at our wrist, disappointment seeping into my train of thought.

This definitely counted as self harm.

But I guess a relapse was bound to happen eventually. And now made perfect sense. Our therapist had threatened her safety, her comfort, her protective mechanism. It was a threat made with good intentions, but there are so many ways harm can be done to the body. Taking away a tool won’t prevent us from finding another way to do it.

I rolled over, slumping on my side, casting my arms out the side of the bed.

Would we even remember that this happened by the time we saw our therapist next?

Does it even matter?

How am I supposed to live this life?

I must.