Pretty graphic selfharm, so if you're easily triggered I would advise you to turn around now.

I don't know why I wrote this; I'm really into the 'dark' stories lately, you might notice that when I publish the other oneshots I'm working on now.


It didn't take much to get here. not anymore, at least; the need for release has been building within me ever since the shooting, but I didn't know how to achieve that.

Until now.

Because now I know exactly how to achieve that release, and I know I will.

Bimbo number one; A blonde flight attendant named Jacinda. She was smiling like an idiot at all times and drove recklessly. –Okay, I might have only seen her drive once, but still…

''She's fun and uncomplicated; just what my life need right now.''

Those words had stung so badly; he could've just slapped me in the face and it wouldn't have made a difference. For whatever reason he'd been cold and distant to me for a while now, but this was just mean, and he knew that.

Bimbo number two; I didn't remember her name, but it was something that you would name your stupid little dog after and she actually carried around a Chihuahua in a stupid pink bag at all times. The pet was loud and annoying and God; how could he like this woman? She looked like a Barbie-doll and the stupid dog reminded me of Royal and how we took care of him together and how he held my hand and…

Anyway; as far as I know the woman only wore pink and she was a walking cliché. Also, she overused her perfume and she smells like she bathed in it.

Up until here I could've handled it. It hurt, and getting my own coffee everyday was a painful reminder of what –who- I was missing, but I was okay.

But then he walked in with two coffees in his hand, and he sat down in his usual spot and for a slight second I believed that maybe he got over it –whatever 'it' referred to. But then it became clear that the coffee was only a bribe to get information out of me, and that hurt even more than him just ignoring me.

Was I that worthless to him?

Then Slaughter happened; hitting on me and obviously ogling me. It hurt; because it was Castle who was supposed to do it in a slightly more civilized way and I would make a comment and he would grin and… god.

But the worst hadn't even happened just yet; after we closed the case and Slaughter went home (of course not without making one more vulgar comment on my ass) another woman stepped out of the elevator.

I wish I could call her bimbo number three but well… I couldn't.

Because she wasn't a bimbo; she was normal, she was real. She was actually gorgeous and god, this was even worse because I could not find one reason to hate her –except then that she was with Castle, but I couldn't use that excuse; obviously- or why Castle would not like her.

She was tall, wearing a simple jacket and jeans combined with a pair of high heeled leather boots. She wore only a little bit of makeup but she still looked gorgeous, her long brown hair fell onto her back and she smiled so brightly.

I could never compete with that; her body, maybe, but her smile?


I don't know how I got here, on the floor of my bathroom and my back against the cupboards of my sink. Neither do I know how I ended up with the sharp piece of metal in my hand, or why I even own it.

(He doesn't love you anymore.)

My heart clenches; I can't handle this anymore. I feel like I'm gonna burst open any moment now.

So I better do it myself, then.

I don't know why I am doing this; don't know at what point I lost my ability to think rationally and clearly. All I know is that the metal feels cold against my burning hot skin and that I feel the desperate need to press down.

(Maybe he never even loved you at all. He just said he loved you; doesn't mean he actually did.)

I repeatedly let my head fall down against the hard surface behind me, but I don't feel it.

I hear a sob escape and only then I realize that I am crying; my face is wet with tears that are falling down my face. I see them fall into my lap as time passes, but I don't feel them escaping from behind my eyelids or making their way down my face.

(He doesn't love you.)

How could he do this to me? Tell me Always, make me believe in his stupid goddamn Always and then just leave me at that?

He didn't even explain; didn't even say goodbye.

He just left – physically he might still be here but everyone knows that his heart and soul are not at the precinct anymore; at least nowhere near to me.

(He doesn't love you.)

Images of him with that last woman make me want to throw up; not because they're 'nauseating', but because the thought of him sleeping, even kissing or even being with another woman literally makes me feel sick to my stomach.

(You're not good enough for him.)

I can't handle it anymore.

I press down.

A flash of pain shoots through my body, but it pierces the numbness I was feeling before.

I tightly shut my eyes and throw my head back. God it hurts. It hurts so good.

I move the blade to the right and feel my skin tears open as if on command.

Here I rule; here only I decide what happens, and who kisses who and who lets down who, and who kills who, and god, even who lives.

(He doesn't love you.)

(He doesn't love you.)

(He doesn't love you.)

I feel something sticky and warm trickle down my wrist, and although the sobbing has stopped and made place for silent tears, I know it's not tears that I'm feeling.

Somewhere along the third slide I have relaxed my face; my eyes are still shut, but only lightly, and I know I am smiling.

(He doesn't love you.)

I don't know how many times I have already slid, lifted and pressed down when I finally open my eyes and let the razor fall down on the ground.

I hear it drop on the tiles as I continue to feel the blood dripping out of my wrist.

When I look down, five cuts are staring back at me; dark reddish blood staining the creamy white skin of my arm and dripping on the floor.

One for my mom.

One for Castle leaving me.

One for the stupid brunette.

One for the bullet that once sat in my chest.

One for being my stupid, damaged self.

I've stopped crying. I just blankly stare at my wrist.

It feels like I'm waking up from some kind of trance when I finally stand up and tightly press my fingers around my bleeding wrist. I open the cupboard that hangs above the mirror; I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. I am pale and tired and my eyes are puffy and red. I look empty; hollow; cruel.

I pick up a washcloth and hold it underneath the tap; when it's slightly moist I wipe the blood away. It hurts. Not in a good way anymore.

My skin feels like I'm holding it in a burning hot fire.

Why did I do this?

When my wrist is relatively clean, the white washcloth has turned red.

When I wrap a bandage around my wrist –tightly, hoping to stop the bleeding- I wince.

It hurts.

Then I hold the dirty washcloth underneath the tap again to clean it. The water quickly turns pink, but the stains don't go away. So I leave it in my sink and turn off the tap. Then I bend down to clean up the floor; it's not much, but a few red droplets disturb the white of the tiles.

I scrub it clean with bleach, although I know that with the right equipment everyone will be able to see the blood.

One last tear escapes when sit down on my couch and I pray to wake up from this nightmare.

What have I done?

This will be a two parter, I think the second chapter will up quickly.

I would love to hear what you think!