A Moment

A match strikes against the box, a tiny flame bringing light to the darkness around her. She watches it for a moment, not quite thinking about what she's about to do. Then she blows it out, quickly, before the smoldering ember has time to cool in the breeze from the open window, she presses the still hot match head against the pale skin at her wrist. The sensation is not one of pain, not at first. No, it begins as a searing of flesh, too hot to be painful. She pulls the match away and hides it in the bottom of her trash can. A tiny blister is forming, now comes the pain. A deep stinging, breaking through the feeling of numb that makes up her existence.

She lives for this. The little moments of pain that break her out of her empty shell and bring her back into the world of the living, if only for a little while. She hates feeling this way, like she's alive without living. It's as if she's a statue, trapped within herself, able to see and hear and touch and taste, yet she can't feel. Life holds nothing for her. Her life is held in a razor and a match.