If she could describe her life in one number, it would be eleven. That's how many years she got to live in innocence. That's how many years she got to be a child.
If she could describe her life in one letter, it would be L. That's the letter some invisible force stamped to her forehead. That's the letter that stands for what she'll always feel like.
If she could describe her life in one word, it would be pain. That's what she used to be running from, but it inevitably caught up with her. Now, it's what she craves.
If she could describe her life in one color...now what would that be? It could be black for the years she's spent surrounded by darkness. It could be blue for the sadness she feels or red for the rage she won't show. It could be purple for a mix of both--the two emotions swirling about her day in and day out. It could be gray for the numbness. Or white for the scars.
She closes her eyes. She knows the real answer.
Maroon.
If she could describe herself in one color, it would be maroon.
That's the color of her blood when it flows out of her as she sits alone on her cold bathroom floor.
She opens her eyes now. She reaches for the knife, and she presses it against her wrist. She pushes it as far down as she dares--teeth clenched at the pain--and she drags it across her pale skin.
Blood drips out. Maroon. She was right. Her color is maroon.
She breathes out a sigh of relief, and for some reason, she smiles. She shakes her head at herself, and she smiles.
She wonders to herself why she even does this. She knows it will make things worse in the end. Why does she do it in the first place?
Silly, little girl, doing silly little things.
Stupid little cutter, playing stupid little games.
Pretty little hands, making pretty little scars.
She brings down the knife again. When she is in this place--this dark place deep within her mind--she is fearless. She is unstoppable. Nothing can reach her. No one can hurt her.
Except, of course, herself.
She doesn't know why that thought makes her smile again, but it does.
She doesn't know why she enjoys the pain.
She doesn't know why she thinks her scars are so beautiful.
She doesn't know why she hides them if she likes looking at them so much.
She laughs. She does know why she hides them. Other people don't like looking at them. Other people do not think they are beautiful.
Oh, but she does. She presses her lips to her bleeding wrist, and she kisses it.
If she could describe her life in one color, it would be maroon.
Beautiful, dark maroon.