Hey look at this, two blog posts in one week – impossible really ain’t a thing after all.

So it’s Mental Health Awareness Week here in the UK, it’s an important week and deserves more attention than it presently receives, as mental health is something that effects a great number of people worldwide and is something we will all come into contact with at some point in our lives.

Those who know me personally will know that I spent 7 years working in mental health care and that I’m also a qualified mental health nurse. Though I no longer work in the field, mental illness is something I’ve taken a lifelong interest in and continue to be interested in, especially raising awareness of it and dispelling the ongoing myths, stigma and presumptions about it that are played upon by the media.

Mental health is also a subject that I frequently touch upon and incorporate into my writing, and I’ve drawn upon my experience in the field several times when writing scenes in my books.

So, in keeping with the theme of this week, I thought I’d share an exerpt from the first draft of my next book, In His Darkened Halls, from a chapter entitled ‘Fragments of the Self’.

(As stated, this is a first draft, so more than likely will be subject to change prior to publication)

There is a certain beauty to be found in pain, one that only the broken can describe. Arnulf pressed the knife’s point into the flesh of his forearm. A moment’s discomfort. He bit down and closed his eyes, dragging it slowly across his skin, sighing as he lifted it free. And a night of rest.

Pat, pat, pat.

Blood ran thick and steady from a shallow cut, divinely straight between the scars either side of it. Pale memories of dark nights, fading yet never quite gone, as though he needed another reminder that only suffering brings salvation.

Pat, pat, pat.

Beads of blood struck the polished floor where Arnulf knelt, dripped onto the robes covering his thighs, full of life’s deceiving warmth. The sound of its pattering echoed depressingly through the temple’s deserted hall, droplets shining black against the candlelight. He raised the blade again, lowering the point to his arm with a shaking hand, a hair’s breadth from the first cut. He closed his eyes as steel bit flesh, gritted his teeth. A moment’s discomfort… He scored his arm again.

Pat, pat, pat.

The blood ran quicker, twin cuts streaming. Another sigh, a hiss of breath against the lingering burn of the cutting edge. A night of rest. A worthy trade. Blood for solace, running cold over his skin. Watch the wounds knit themselves back together, let the wretched fragments of the self congeal and push back the prickling of those ruinous eyes, silence the whispering, chattering voices. For now, at least.