The jealous woman

She wasn't jealous of them. She was jealous of what they had – people. People to be with on a lazy Sunday afternoon and do stuff together, almost like a family, without the blood ties that bind you down. Instead, a family for the meeting of likeminded minds.

She had no people. And the realization bore down on her like a heavy weight, as though someone had climbed unto her shoulder and just sat there while she lugged him, a terrible heavy weight, as she moved about.

What was it about her, she thought. 

She read enough self-help crap on the internet to supposedly keep her sane. The 7 habits of highly effective people, the 10 things you do that brings you down, 5 things optimists do differently, 1 question you should ask yourself every day, 6 anwers happy people have that we don't.

Really, does this shit help anyone? If she was in the midst of an anxiety attack, would she stop, log on to the net and read one of these posts to make her feel better?

Or would she walk to her kitchen sink, pick up the knife sitting in its holder, imagine it grazing, no, cutting her skin, drawing blood. Thick, red, blood.

So what was it about her – that made her want to pick up that knife?

She didn’t really want to die. She wanted to feel pain. To feel alive. To scratch herself hard, and see the streaks across her wrist. The marks shouldn’t last the night, should disappear by morning. Is that all the guts she's got?

Why did she think herself so flawed, so used, so not worthy of love. Of kindness. Of compassion.

Her mind, reading those internet articles, tell her otherwise, of course. But deep down, she can’t get rid of the picture of her mouth closing in on his dick, a little at first, but then taking it down whole, right to the very end, till it feels like she's choking. Maybe she did choke a little, but he just holds her head down, she has no say. In that helpless moment, she does not feel fear, only need. Need for more.