Perfect Timing

Hmmmm, they did give her that box cutter at work today.  Her manager told her to take it home and not to lose it.  She had nodded happily, images of bloody arms and sliced skin flashing through her brain.  She hadn't had such available access to something that had the potential to do serious damage in quite some time.  The whole drive home that's all she thought about, what the hell was she going to do?  Everything was perfectly fine when she arrived at her apartment, but she smelt of deli meats and cheese.1

She stands in the shower for hours letting the water beat down on the back of her head.  Already done with mundane tasks of washing and shaving, she stares at the scummy white tile.  Not really at the white tile, but past it, she is looking into her own head, scared out of her mind.  She feels the anxiety build up inside of her every few minutes.  Just before she reaches the climax of insanity she presses her bony hands against her wet forehead and then slowly moves them along towards the back of her head, squeezing the water out of her blonde hair.  She continues her hands down to her collarbones, pausing for a minute, then moving along to her breasts, past her hard nipples and then finally down against her visible ribs before dropping them to her sides once again.  She must have done this at least thirty times already, she breaks down in tears, shaking uncontrollably at the bottom of the tub.  She knows exactly where that lovely box cutter is, precisely.  It is in the right, no no no, left pocket of her black dickies that are on her bed right next to her laptop.  She thinks about it, sitting in that little fold of fabric, just waiting to feel the warmth of her tender flesh.  But she has to go pick up her friend in 10 minutes to watch a movie, he would be worried.... oh well, he can wait.  It is done and decided.2

Forcefully pulling back the shower curtain, she steps out of the shower and quickly wraps a towel around her damp locks.  Her eyes gleaming with hysteria, she steadily walks across her bathroom towards her room, leaving a trail of water behind her.  Continuing towards her pink bed, she feels adrenaline surging through her veins.  Veins which soon would be leaking all over her ugly brown carpet.  She sits on the bed and reaches into the pocket of her pants, feeling for the small rectangular knife.  Suddenly, she notices a light out of the corner of her eye.  She turns to her computer screen to see a small orange tab flashing, someone had sent her an instant message.  Pausing, she glances at the knife in her hand, then back at the blinking message.  After tossing the knife across the room, she clicks on the message.  It's from her friend, the one she is supposed to go pick up, it reads 'hey, are you ready?  Come and get me, I can't wait to see you!'3

A crooked smile comes across her face, she always tells him he's psychic.4