Locking the bathroom door, I switch on the shower and turn the settings on high. The sound of gushing water and my deep breathing is harsh to my ears. Yanking off my Smashing Pumpkins band t-shirt, I drop it to the floor and press my hands to the edges of the porcelain sink. I drop my head and stare at the crack lines that scar the bowl. They remind me too much of myself.

I glance across at my inner left arm and see the latest row of thin red lines. From habit, I begin counting them. There are twelve in total. As my knuckles start to turn white, I let go of the sink and slip my right hand into my jeans pocket. My fingers touch a small plastic case and quickly recall.

Avoiding my reflection in the misting over mirror, I encourage my fingers to remove the case and place it upon the back ledge of the sink. Light bounces off the razor blades and tries to create shattered reflections on their surfaces. They are single blades for refilling shaving razors, but they are here for another purpose, which they are perfect for.

The running shower becomes a distant noise and exploring tentacles of steam fill the bathroom. I slowly, open the case and select the first blade. It has become my favourite. I run the cold tap and balance my left arm over the sink, with my elbow resting on the edge. The chosen patch of skin is over the plug hole. This is the ideal position to be in.

Gripping the razor between my fingers, I lower it down, whilst trying to control my breathing. Anticipation tickles me and I can also feel the adrenal preparing to hit me. My eyes close and I count down. Everything has to be controlled. I feel the blade touch me and I almost jump. Control. Control.

I open my eyes and press the blade down. A droplet of red and then another. They bead alongside as a spike of pain follows. Added pressure causes further hurt and red to stain the metal. I don’t like that, so I lift the blade away.  A drop of blood hits the sink. I glance down at the imperfect circle and wash the blade under the roaring tap. The water turns pink, but becomes red as I dive my arm under.

Stinging erupts with a dose of relief. Removing my arm, I inspect my new scar which blood drops are congealing over. Satisfied and feeling better, I slot the blade back then turn off the tap. Easing off my jeans and underwear, I lower the heat of the shower and get in. Hot water plummets over me washing away everything.