On Having Power
There is a razor blade hidden between page 145 and 146 of Dawn's Trigonometry textbook. She knows this, and she carries the razor and the knowledge of it all day. Sometimes that knowledge is enough. It's a rush to take the book out of her messenger bag every day in fifth period, knowing what's in the pages. She hasn't taken it out, not yet, not until today.
Today...is special. It's been a year today. She gets a pass to the bathroom during last period and sits on the closed lid of the toilet, her Trig book in her lap.
Dawn opens to page 145 and picks up the thin sheet of sharp metal with her fingernails. Harsh flourescent bathroom lights reflect off the sharp blade. There's a dripping somewhere, from a faucet, and it echoes off the bathroom walls. Dawn rolls up her sleeve, extending her arm, wrist-up. The skin on the underside of her right forearm is soft and white, save for a long scar, only slightly pinker than her skin. She shuts her eyes tight, trying to remember the pain the knife had caused ("Is this blood?"). All she remembers is the blood running bright and red down her elbow.
She presses the razor to her skin, holding it at an angle, and slices. THe result is nothing compared to the knife. a few beads of blood show up and it hardly even hurts. Just a brief sting. But it fells good and tiny bits of memory prick her brain. She does it again, higher up, harder this time. She shudders with the pain and sobs. There are no tears. It feels...different. And beautiful. Her eyes hurt from being screwed shut so tight, and her breaths are coming fast so that her lungs hurt. Two more slashes cross the original scar and her forehead rests against the cold painted cinderblock of the wall. Dawn holds the blade against her wrist and presses. It cuts only a little and she feels so powerful. How easily she could just press in harder and harder, and pull--till all that blood gushes out all over the cheap tile floor. They could find her hours later. Maybe a janitor or a student. Maybe a teacher. Dawn has that power, and she can taste the blade and it's tangy metal. But she stops pressing and drags the razor away, the metal scraping her skin but not breaking it. She has that power--to take her own life, just like Buffy. She can be just like Buffy. But not today.
She slips the razor back between the pages and cleans herself up with toilet paper. She packs her Trig book away and leaves the stall. For now, the knowledge of the razor is enough.