Note to readers: YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ THIS PROLOGUE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO. IT WON'T AFFECT YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE FIC. This was as a request from an anon. And this is just the prologue. That won't make any sense whatsoever. But that's the point. Enjoy anyhow.

TRIGGER WARNING for those self-harmers out there.


The letter shook in her hands and the words reverberated in her head – high risk procedure – fifty-fifty chance of survival – poppet, don't worry. She touched her mother's signature, the familiar swirls and turns, but she could read no further than don't worry. It meant nothing to her. How could it? The words swam blindly through the darkness in her head and her glazed eyes searched hopelessly for something she couldn't see. It was no use. She turned from the small audience that had gathered before her and pushed through the door without a word. No one uttered reassurance – no one knew.

She walked down the busy corridor and the world seemed to be in slow motion. Each new face merged into the one before. To her, there was no difference between one person and the next and they passed by her without impact. She climbed the stairs. She couldn't hear her lonely footsteps, but, from the effort she was exerting and the weight of her steps, they should have been making some kind of noise. It was a slow procession – a funeral march. She reached the landing and continued down another path. The wooden panelled wall on her right and the soft country view from the windows on her left felt different somehow. But it wasn't the world that had changed. Students ducked in and out of the rooms lining the panelled wall. It was Friday; some of them went home for the weekend. Her own door was closed. It swung open with a groan of long-suffering pain.

The room was dark and empty. Four of the five beds were stripped and her roommates were absent – gone already. Her eyes remained dry as she shut the door and leant her forehead against it. It's cold wood burnt and it didn't take long for it to bring her back to the real world, the unforgiving reality of the letter still in her shaking hands. Now the world was utterly silent. The noise of the corridor didn't reach her and she listened to the sound of her own breathing. It was unsteady and difficult and she panicked. Her breaths got faster and soon her eyes were wide with fear.

In wild distress she tore away from the wood she had pressed herself to and threw herself at the trunk at the end of her bed – the one in the corner. She dug through text books and clothes and various objects until she reached the bottom. Her heart in her mouth, she froze. She stretched and pulled the tool out. Letter in one hand and the small knife in the other, she shut the lid of the trunk and placed the letter on top.

Her movements were slow again. Her frantic desperation had all but disappeared, but her breathing was still irregular as she tugged back her left sleeve. Her pale skin glowed in the dim light and the knife glistened as she pressed it to her wrist. She could feel it itching – do it, do it, do it. She looked back up at the letter and that was all it took. She drew the knife quickly across her skin and it ripped her open. With a groan, she let her head fall to the trunk she was knelt before. The knife dropped and clattered to the floor.

From a distance, it may have looked as if she was praying – her head bowed, her eyes shut and her right hand clasped to her left wrist. Her breaths shuddered through her body. She whimpered as the pleasurable pain coursed through her like warmth.

She cried.

As you can see, it is currently nonsensical. Please understand that I am studying for my A levels and have mucho coursework to do, not to mention various personal problems, so this might be a very slow-moving fic. Any feedback will be welcome as I am an aspiring writer. I'll post chapter two straight away so that you don't get bored.