themonolith
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Crossing his legs over, Jack eagerly pressed the blade to his left wrist this time. Unlike his right, his left was stained with pink scars, mostly horizontal but a few were diagonal or vertical - it always depended on how he wanted to cut when he was in the heat of the moment.
For the second time in less than twenty four hours, he let himself go all over again as the blade sliced across his pale skin just right, bumping over old and raised scars but nothing he couldn't handle. This time around, he slowly but surely felt blood coating his fingertips deliciously. It was perfect, as deep and as bloody as Jack wanted it to be, proud for the time being.