The longer she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the more she hated herself. Squinting at her reflection, she hoisted herself up onto the bathroom counter and sat, chin in hand, and stared into her own eyes. Blue as they were, she thought they were boring. She turned her attention to her skin. She hated it. It was grotesque, oily, uneven. She sat for fifteen minutes, staring at her reflection, picking out flaws, before she abruptly hopped off the counter and walked back into her bedroom. The clock on the computer screen read 4:57 am. She went to the dresser and reached into a drawer. From among the panties, bras, and other lacy items, she drew a short, rectangular razorblade. Glaring through a blurry haze of tears, she pulled it quickly across the scarred skin of her left wrist. She didn't wince, or cringe at the pain. She barley felt it anymore. Without missing a beat or spilling a drop of blood on the light tan carpeting, she made her way back to the bathroom. She located a fresh roll of toilet paper and carried it in to her room, still not dripping on the floor. She wrapped layer upon layer of toilet paper around her bleeding wrist and secured it with athletic tape. Another day, another drop, she thought, crawling into bed. The blood would seep through the toilet paper. She knew. She was already light-headed from loss of blood. She didn't care. A small, sad smile played on her lips as she slipped into unconsciousness. It was better this way.