#atozchallenge: Corkscrew

There were days when the hurt inside was too much to bear. It was on those days that she would sit at her dining table at dusk, staring at the lone bottle of liquor that someone had bought ages past and had never opened. She'd forgotten who or when. A past housemate, maybe, or a past boyfriend. But they hadn't had a corkscrew then, and she didn't have one now, and even if she did, she wasn't sure if she would be able to drink past the first sip. She never had.
Instead, she would sit, staring at the bottle, to keep her mind off the small sharp razor that she had once bought cheap in a jumble sale. It was an old-school razor, like the ones in the black-and-white movies, and she had found it fascinating until it became frightening because her knuckles were white from holding on to the table so she would not reach out for it again.
                 Because she knew that if she touched it

she would start again on that spiral 

                                          where lines of red blossomed, like pathways 

to hell,

down, down, down to god knows where.

                             If there was a god (was there?)

he probably wasn't there either.

                                         It was where she stood alone

as she always had

                                                    in her own blood.