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She ran the razor blade along the side of her wrist, slowly, determinedly, tongue in the corner of her mouth, focused, no one else was in the adjoining toilet cubicles on the locked ward. Blood came and she became relaxed, and held the razor blade away from the skin. It was sticky with blood. She sat there gazing disinterestedly at the scene. All else, all other things, and voices, and far away music from the ward radio, were like echoes in a dream, and she didn't talk or laugh or scream.
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Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 3:43 AM UTC
Lily One Friday Afternoon 1971.
She ran the razor blade along the side of her wrist, slowly, determinedly, tongue in the corner of her mouth, focused, no one else was in the adjoining toilet cubicles on the locked ward. Blood came and she became relaxed, and held the razor blade away from the skin. It was sticky with blood. She sat there gazing disinterestedly at the scene. All else, all other things, and voices, and far away music from the ward radio, were like echoes in a dream, and she didn't talk or laugh or scream.
TerryCollett
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Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 3:43 AM UTC
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