She was how she always was. Tired and messy looking. Her hair falling out of her bun. Her shirt had a stain, and her pants had a tear. Her makeup from three days ago worn from her pillow spread over her face.
Standing up she went and turned on her dim lamp and turned off the main light. She listened to the same album by the same artist as she always does. Sitting in the middle of her room surrounded by piles of dirty clothes and empty food dishes. She watched as a fly buzzed pass. It went over to the lamp and then disappeared.
Looking down at her hands she fiddled with her razor. If she held it at the right angle she could see herself. She didn't like what she saw. She brought the razor to her arm and made a small cut. About the size of her thumb nail. She watched how the blood began to surface and a small drop began to form. She turned her arm and the drop started sliding down her wrist.
She made four more cuts. All larger than the last. When she was done with those she dabbed the blood off and made four more cuts going the opposite direction. She didn't know why but she liked the way crosshatching looked. The blood would pool at the intersections, and then slide down the the sides of her arms.
She held a small towel to the new markings and waited for the blood to stop. When it had she went to her hip. She made a line stretching a couple inches she stood up and watched the path the blood would take. She adding a few more she then sat down holding the same cloth just folded over to her hip.
She stared at her floor and wondered why she was like this. Why couldn't she just be happy like other people are. Why couldn't she be like others. Why couldn't she not be herself.
When he came over he never questioned her about the marks. When he came over he would hug her and kiss her forehead, and he would sit down and beckon her over. She would sit with him. He would pull her close and he would hold her. And they would stay like that. They would stay as they always are. As they will ever be.
