Mourning Skye: Prelude

The light in the bathroom was dim, but the rays from sun penetrated the room, from the frosted window. The frame of the window was painted white, a long, long time ago. It was beginning to chip away, exposing the rotting grain underneath. The walls surrounding the window frame were also painted a long time ago. These were painted gray. They were dull and drab and had no decorations to hide their imperfections. There was a white towel hanging from a rod above the toilet, the white porcelain toilet, with a dark ring inside its bowl that desperately needed to be scrubbed away.

The medicine cabinet was open. It was an ordinary medicine cabinet. It had a mirror encased in metal, with plastic insides. On the bottom shelf was a tube of toothpaste. It was neatly rolled from the bottom and the cap was clean. Next to the toothpaste were three spools of floss. One mint, one cinnamon and one un-waxed. On the top shelf was a bottle of perfume. The bottle was small and delicate. The lid to the bottle was crimson and the perfume was half-empty. Beside the perfume was a stick of deodorant and a jar of Vaseline. The lid to the Vaseline was neatly in place and the petroleum jelly had been wiped clean from the sides of the jar as best as it could.

The middle shelf of the cabinet had one bottle of aspirin, one bottle of ibuprofen, one bottle of Aleeve, one bottle of Midol, one prescription of Xanax, one prescription of Vicodin, one prescription of Celexa, one prescription of Paxil, one prescription of Zoloft, one prescription of Cymbalta and one prescription for Percocet. A scarred hand reached up and grabbed the bottle of Percocet and shakily opened the bottle and poured five pills into her hand. She unsteadily brought the pills to her chapped lips and put them into her mouth and swallowed them down with swig of vodka.

She uneasily slammed the bottle onto the sink. Her scarred hand turned on the faucet and reached for the bar of soap that was resting on the clean soap dish. She ran the soap under the water and rubbed the bar of soap between her scarred hand and her unscarred hand producing a lot of suds. She let the faucet run as she took her perfect and imperfect hands to her face to clean it. She put her hands under the water, to let the suds run off, to reveal her scars and cupped her hands and brought the water up to her face. She rinsed the soap from her face. Again she filled her hands with water and brought it to her face to rinse the lather away. She did this five times. Without looking, or opening her eyes, she reached for the white towel and gently patted her face dry. The faucet continued to run.

She folded the white towel and placed it on the floor next to the sink. Before turning the water off, she ran her wrists under the water. On the wrist, on the same side as her scarred hand, she had a prominent scar running the length of her wrist. Her other wrist, like her other hand was perfect. She turned the water off and closed the cabinet and stared back at herself.

She stood there, nude, looking at herself in the mirror. She had smeared her heavy eye makeup and it ran down her face. Her face was pale and she had stringy, yellow hair. She was thin, not emaciated, but thin. Her eyes were very light blue. They were almost gray and empty of emotion. They heavy makeup was a brilliant contrast to the lightness. This is Skye.

She looks into the glass, through her very light blue eyes. Her limbal ring was prominent. It was dark and thicker than most, accentuating her very light blue eyes and bringing attention to the reddened capillaries in the whites of her eyes. Her eyes are ones that men fall for and ones that women are jealous for. With clean hair and healthy skin, she would be a photographer’s dream. Either in full color or black and white.

She stood there nude, and examined her face. A string of her yellow hair fell into her face, and she moved it behind her ear. She looked back at herself and then leaned in closer to examine her daunting eyes. She leaned her head back and looked at her broken capillaries. After she looked at he ever-reddening eyes, she then too her left hand and felt her scarred wrist. She took her left index finger and playfully fingered the scar up the length of her boney wrist. She ran her finger up and down her wrist five time and then she hung her head and placed both hands on each side of the sink.

She sobbed an uncontrollable sob. She snorted and a little snot came out and she took her scarred wrist and wiped the snot from her nose and wiped her wrist on her back. She laughed at herself and lifts her head to look at herself once again in the rusty mirror. She took a deep breath, opened the bottle of vodka and took another swig and again slammed it back onto the sink. She giggled as she turned and opened the white curtain to the bathtub and turned on the faucet to fill it up.

The bathtub had one bottle of shampoo, one bottle of conditioner, one bar of soap, one razor and one can of shaving cream. She stood over the tub waiting for it to fill, swaying back and forth, dancing to a song that was inside of her head. The song was slow and the song was melancholy. She turned and took another swig from the vodka bottle and again slammed it onto the sink. Satisfied with the level of the water, she climbed in.

The water stung her skin at first. But she eased her way in and let out a satisfied sigh. As the water filled she took her good hand and her scarred hand and splashed water onto her body that was not underneath the water yet. She lay there and examined her nude body. She liked her nude body. Her body overly womanly, but it was not manly. Her breasts weren’t big, but they weren’t small, but she had narrow hips. With all the things that had happened in her life, she felt that she was never used for her body. She also liked her nipples. Her areolas were small, but not too small. She also like that they were not very dark. They were pinker than most nipples that she had seen. She felt that she had a unique quality in that. They almost blended into her skin, so they didn’t need to be the focus of her body. She also liked the mole she had above her left nipple. It was hers and a few other people’s secret. Only a privileged few knew about the mole.

As she was examining her breasts her hand-made its way between her legs. On the way down she felt the overabundance of pubic hair and played with it in her hand for a bit as she looked at it. It was light brown, not yellow. She grabbed the shaving cream from the side of the tub and spread it liberally on her pubic hair. She reached over and grabbed the razor and worked along the bikini line inwards above the lips. With each pass she would dip the razor in the water and clean it, creating a film of hair in the water. When she cleared the top of the pubic region she took a pass over her labia and winced as she cut herself. The blood mixed with the water and pubic hair soup. She took her fingers and cleared away the clippings to look at it. She came away with a smear of blood on her finger. She looked at her finger and put it in her mouth tasting the metallic blood on it. She looked at the razor and saw the blood and put her scarred hand back between her legs where it started and began to masturbate. It was still holding on to the razor.

She began fondling her breast with her unscarred hand, tweaking her nipple, touching the mole with each twist. As she was beginning to climax she took the razor and started to ferociously stab at her unscarred wrist. Each stab dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. She was crying and climaxing and stabbing herself with tremendous tranquility. With her last tremor, she took the razor blade from the razor and took her scarred hand cut deep into the vein of her unscarred, wounded arm. She laughed out loud as the murky, hairy water quickly ran red. As the vodka ran to her head she calmly looked to the bathroom door and sighed with a smile.

Please to enjoy.

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