I stand over the sink once more. In my hand, light reflects off a metal blade. Tears stain my cheeks, black mascara is smudged underneath my eyes.
I took up his offer last week. But how am I supposed to make this work?
I blink away the blurriness to examine my forearms. Healed scars appear as train tracks, crisscrossing the skin. There is no fresh blood, yet.
I inhale deeply, and exhale through my nose.
It hurts. In my chest, my head. I have a difficult time getting out of bed in the morning. I don't want to see anyone, talk to anyone. I just want to be alone.
I shut my eyes and continue to breathe deeply. I feel the knife being raised to my wrist, the cool metal connecting with flesh makes me shiver.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I count to calm myself, to stop the shaking. After many breaths, I finally set the knife down on the counter.
What has he done to me? I'm so weak, I can't even bring myself to cut.
