She ripes deeper through her skin, as the musical pitch goes higher.
The high music pitch in the back provoked the rage inside her.
Her nails indulged in her skin.
She could feel her flesh.

She would carve her arm, with a sharp blade.  
She mesmerized every clot of blood that came out of her skin.
Blood sliding down her arm, reaching her finger, from her fingers to the floor, like a drop of rain.  
Every scratch was a symbol of pain.

Pain to her was hypnotic.
She would be gruntled when she witnessed herself burn with pain.
It was her catharsis from the stress that confronted her every day.
Each scar had its reason to exist.

Each day she pondered, will she ever be able to break free from the confinement of sorrow.
Failed at getting an answer, each day went by.