You sob while staring into the restroom mirror, wishing you had pigtails and a slashed throat.
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ADULT CONTENT
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Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
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You cut your thumb open and smear the blood across your computer screen. This occurs nightly, threatening to be bi-daily.
You stare with closed eyes at the monitor, mesmerised, forcing your consciousness through the pixelated membrane into the room beyond. And then the feeling starts.
A warm glow rushes to your head. Fuzzy pixels burn through your brain and leak down your neck and into the palms of your hands. You glide into the drywall and spread yourself across the carpet. You can feel the history in your fingertips.
Chelsea_Warren08 tells you that your corpse looked cute last night. You sob while staring into the restroom mirror, wishing you had pigtails and a slashed throat.
You watch a stream of a child's bedroom, three corpses — friends — strung about the place. You fall asleep at your desk, awoken three hours later by knocking on your office door.
You etch her name into your mind, and her parents' names, and the name of her local police department. Google shows you the hospital she was born in, the school she went to, the house she died in, the cemetery she was buried in. You make a mental note of the address of that last one.
The gap between arriving home and logging on is getting smaller and smaller.
You trace circles over your chest and abdomen and imagine what the stab wounds would feel like. You picture your name in a headline.
You split your time at work between writing e-mails and watching the streams. The tab is always open. You watch the clock.
You can feel the vague shape of other corpses in the room. You revel in each other's presence, gliding around the space together. Later that day, JW1990 and Woundboy tell you that they can envision you in a body bag. You order one online and spend two hours a day zipped inside it.
You lock your office door and switch off the lights.
You spend half the day asleep, in that room. The image of what you can never be torments you every waking second. Your face feels wrong. Your chest feels wrong. Your intact, un-rotting body feels wrong.
When you're awake you watch the news reports and read the articles and the court documents over and over again. There is never enough content to satiate you.
Consistent use has severely diminished the amount of unscarred tissue from which to draw blood, even less when accounting for what will show. I can never go swimming again. The thought briefly enters your mind, immediately dismissed.
One night you compress yourself so hard into the corner where the trim and the carpet meet, you pierce through it for a moment. A fuzzy white void expands beyond you, dotted with distant three-walled rooms; you recognise some from the website. Cream-coloured lines shoot from each corner of the three-quarter boxes, ending on another room's corner. You can hear screaming. You're forced back through the wall in an instant. You never push through again.
You realise that you feel the most alive when you're dead. You never stop.