Let's see if I can write an entire oneshot in thirty minutes... Grammatical or spelling errors, don't care. -- The bathroom's decor is old. That's all I've got to say. There are missing tiles, as well as cracks in the mirror and porcelain. It's a crooked reflection, a frown and a smile. I don't know which is which. I touch my face for a moment, to feel the moisture of my hair on my open palm. It feels foreign, the touch of my dried hand on my wetting hair. I never actually bothered to wash, only step in and wait as endless droplets of water rained onto my head. I flutter my eyelashes and open my lids, only to see the rusty tap greet me with a fading smile. ... Or is that just another hallucination? As I step out of the shower, I let go of my sanity. I feel the cold air against my burning skin, as the much welcomed breeze carresses the red welts on my legs. The pain doesn't bother me much at all. It's a feeling I've gotten used to over the years. And as I reminisce, I trace the scars with my fingertips, touching the bumps etched onto my fading skin. I'm tempted to laugh, really. Half of them were self-inflicted. The irony of it all, running away from the pain and yet I come back, begging for that feel again and again and again. I can feel the scissor's presence near the sink, right by me. I don't know why I even bother wrapping myself in a towel. I'm just going to revisit that sensation again soon, to feel cold metal brush against burning flesh, to savor the mixed emotions as the cut deepends as I continue to guide the scissors to create a self-proclaimed masterpiece. I drop the scissors and lean back. Relaxation and sleep had never come this easily... 'Succumb to the clutches of much-welcomed rest, let shadowed arms lead you to bed' -- WOOT.
Tot8lly, 8ndi. We will r8le F8nficti8n with ir8n f8sts and decl8re this p8tty w8rld as 8urs! MU8H8H8H8H8H8!