- Aug 9, 2016
- 5,922
- Gender
- Male
- Pronouns
- Him/Her/Them
- Posting Status
- Daily, Weekly
Jasmine was at war with herself.
She was so caught up in the constant back and forth between her rational, logical brain and the constant nagging feeling that gripped her that she didn't even fully realize where she was walking before she was in the thick of what she knew from her late night runs was criminal territory. Everything seemed grungier here. Dirtier. The street lights didn't seem to reach as far.
I should just go back to my dorm. Like I said I would. I've got everything I need there. Razors. Bandages. Alcohol. It'll be nice, clean, safe.
Safe, though, was the last thing that she wanted. She'd really messed up. Arianell hated her now. Just like Risky and Anna. Probably Eric too, with as little time as he spent with her. And it wasn't like he'd stopped them from laying into her when they told her how fake and useless she was. Not their exact words, but she could read between the lines.
Jasmine didn't want nice, clean, or safe. She didn't deserve those things. She deserved to hurt. This was normal. Mortification of the flesh. Die in the flesh and live in the spirit. That was what the priest had always said.
The men ahead of her were as good as any. Vampires, if she had to guess. Or some other kind of demon. They would do though. She was on autopilot. She needed to get a rise out of them. Shaking, sweating, barely breathing she approached, hand going into her hoodie pocket and feeling the beads and the sharp corner of the crucifix.
They said something, but the blood pumping in Jasmine's ears wouldn't let her hear it. He sounded concerned though. She probably looked as sick as she felt. She was going to throw up. No she wasn't.
She may have been a fraud, but she wasn't a wuss. Her father had not raised a wuss. She didn't throw up, didn't get queasy. Even when she sliced too deep into her thigh and felt lightheaded trying to stop the bleeding before she needed a hospital.
Jasmine pushed the rosary at the one on the left and he hissed like a cat, springing back a good distance. She said something, or tried to. But her tongue was thick with the numbness that had filled her head and she wasn't even sure if words came out when she opened her mouth.
And then she loosened her grip on the rosary, letting it tumble to the grimy cement below her. And then the cement was above her as a hand slammed into her stomach. Okay, now she could throw up. That was an entirely new kind of pain, like an entire bed of coals in her stomach.
Sprawled on the road in a pool of her own blood and vomit, Jasmine closed her eyes. She wouldn't die. She never did. God wouldn't let her, no matter how much she tried.
She was so caught up in the constant back and forth between her rational, logical brain and the constant nagging feeling that gripped her that she didn't even fully realize where she was walking before she was in the thick of what she knew from her late night runs was criminal territory. Everything seemed grungier here. Dirtier. The street lights didn't seem to reach as far.
I should just go back to my dorm. Like I said I would. I've got everything I need there. Razors. Bandages. Alcohol. It'll be nice, clean, safe.
Safe, though, was the last thing that she wanted. She'd really messed up. Arianell hated her now. Just like Risky and Anna. Probably Eric too, with as little time as he spent with her. And it wasn't like he'd stopped them from laying into her when they told her how fake and useless she was. Not their exact words, but she could read between the lines.
Jasmine didn't want nice, clean, or safe. She didn't deserve those things. She deserved to hurt. This was normal. Mortification of the flesh. Die in the flesh and live in the spirit. That was what the priest had always said.
The men ahead of her were as good as any. Vampires, if she had to guess. Or some other kind of demon. They would do though. She was on autopilot. She needed to get a rise out of them. Shaking, sweating, barely breathing she approached, hand going into her hoodie pocket and feeling the beads and the sharp corner of the crucifix.
They said something, but the blood pumping in Jasmine's ears wouldn't let her hear it. He sounded concerned though. She probably looked as sick as she felt. She was going to throw up. No she wasn't.
She may have been a fraud, but she wasn't a wuss. Her father had not raised a wuss. She didn't throw up, didn't get queasy. Even when she sliced too deep into her thigh and felt lightheaded trying to stop the bleeding before she needed a hospital.
Jasmine pushed the rosary at the one on the left and he hissed like a cat, springing back a good distance. She said something, or tried to. But her tongue was thick with the numbness that had filled her head and she wasn't even sure if words came out when she opened her mouth.
And then she loosened her grip on the rosary, letting it tumble to the grimy cement below her. And then the cement was above her as a hand slammed into her stomach. Okay, now she could throw up. That was an entirely new kind of pain, like an entire bed of coals in her stomach.
Sprawled on the road in a pool of her own blood and vomit, Jasmine closed her eyes. She wouldn't die. She never did. God wouldn't let her, no matter how much she tried.
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