Glazed like daggers

I stared at him.
My eyes, those that he once lovingly gazed into, glared like daggers at his body slumped on the pavement. His body, tangled, bloodied, broken. This was the man I once dedicated my world to. My dear Tom.
It’s been seven days since he called me when drunk. Seven, painful, bloody, tear-stricken days. Hearing his voice broke me, and knowing he was with another girl broke me more. My arms, mauled by my knife, stung day by day, all for this boy. All for Tom.
Maybe I became insane through those seven days. Maybe I just lost myself. My parents had began to notice my arms, but they didn’t comment — they just simply got a psychiatrist to come and visit me. It was a shock, seeing this kind-faced woman come into room and talk to me, acting is if she knew everything.
She knew nothing, and never will.
I acted all calm, and accepting of our support, and took her pills, but didn’t swallow them. They just ended up in the toilet, like the pieces of paper she left which were supposed to help me. Nothing helped, and nothing will. Nothing can fix a broken and bloodied heart apart from what the heart wants.
Maybe I thought too much of Tom, and I began to detest him, hate him. I loved him, but I hated the way he treat me. The way he used my body for his pleasure, the way he traced my lips with his just for his pleasure, the way he was, but I loved him for the way he was, but he hurt me for it. Maybe I confused myself, and this is how I turned to being mad, crazy, mental, retarded, whatever you’ll call it.
I want to hurt him back.

I won’t share you those little details of how I did it. I won’t share you what I wrote to my parents. I want share you how I found him, or what I did to him. I’ll only share you the important bit. My bit.

It was beginning to rain. My hair, black and sleek, greeted it silently. No fuzz, no tantrum, nothing. Just like me. I didn’t cry when I harmed Tom. I didn’t feel unhappy, or depressed, or shocked with what I did. I felt worthwhile, like I’m doing something I should be doing.
So here I was, watching his silent, quiet and cold body. His clothes matted, stained with alcohol and blood, ripped from where I grabbed him, where my fingers once lovingly graced, no scratching with my nails.
Someone would find him soon, and then find me. I would be chucked in a psychiatric hospital, with doctors, drugs and all that. My life of normality would be over.
But it’s already over. My heart can only be broken once, and never ever repaired again. People think it’s okay to disappoint others, sometimes ignorant to the fact that they’re breaking their heart. People don’t know that they’re doing it, but they’re definitely doing it alright!
Tom did it to me, but my heart still lived for him.
His body was placed in a fetal position, and I should stress now that his body is stained with lots of alcohol. I poured the bottle all over him, the contents gracing his lovely body, my hand shaking as I did so, but carrying on regardless. This had to be done. I then poured the remaining contents over myself. The smell of it was repulsive. I never got into alcohol unless I had to.
I reached into the back pocket of my jeans, withdrawing a small box. I opened the box, taking out one short stick. It was a match.
I lit the match, and fire emitted from the tip of it, casting a light on Tom’s body. I stared longingly at him again. I loved him, but he didn’t love me. That is one of the most hardest things to comprehend.
Whatever. I should get on with this.
I felt no remorse, no fright, no worry. That all left me when I was in my room, cutting away at my body.
So, like a sword, I plunged the match onto my alcohol stained clothes.
The last thing I saw was him lying on the floor, but he was breathing. Breathing.
We burned together.

Her body burnt first, and then the fire spread to Tom, killing them both.