She feels sick. It is not the type of illness that will make her retch, but she feels wrong. She knows she is sick. She knows because she likes the blood. The sting comforts her. She likes to watch the skin glow white for a second before the red beads form along the line she has drawn. Before every stroke, she tries to summon the courage to press down just hard enough to make sure this will happen.

When she talks about this, she pretends that "being good" is avoiding the knife and "being weak" is allowing it to seduce her. But in her own privacy, she secretly believes that it is the other way around.

"I was so good for almost four years."

But now it is stronger than ever, the urge to draw the blood again. It calms her, it makes her feel alive, and it reassures her that nobody can hurt her as hard as she can hurt herself. This is her medicine, her rock, her punishment.

People are retarded, she has realized. Cats are not capable of drawing such perfect lines, yet of course that excuse will be accepted. People are retarded.

Her eyes dare others to question the flimsy cover, but they never do. One half is relieved, the other half is angry.

Anger and bile fill her thoughts. She is angry at herself that she can walk effectively invisible through her days, regardless of how kindly or cruelly she treats others. She hears the gratitude and platitude in the words, but she cannot feel them, cannot see them, and cannot touch them.

The ceiling fan turns slowly and she holds her hand in front of her face, turning palm up, palm down, palm up, palm down... she wonders if she is really alive, if this hand is real, or if she is only a figment of her own imagination. She is angry at herself and at everybody. She is lonely and pleading, her words silently begging her bedspread for help.

The selfish and private thoughts consume her mind, so she must reassure herself, with every blow to her stomach, that nobody can hurt her as much as she can hurt herself. It is a ritual for her, and its secrecy she carries like a glowing object inside. Carefully, carefully extract the old blade from the knife and replace its microscopically discolored and very slightly dulled edge with a new one. Gently, gently tighten the screw and slowly, slowly tear open the packet of disinfectant fabric. Neatly, neatly envelope the blade in its folds and deliberately, deliberately polish the blade. She scrutinizes her right arm to find a place to cut.

Nobody can hurt you as much as you can hurt yourself. She repeats the sentence with each cut. The pain is welcome and the rest is public knowledge.

Nobody will be able to hurt me as much as I hurt myself.

Nobody will be able to hurt me as much as I can hurt myself.

Nobody will ever be able to hurt me as much as I will hurt myself.

Nobody will ever be able to hurt me as much as I now hurt myself. You cannot touch me. I have decided I will never let anybody hurt me as much as I hurt myself.

You cannot touch me, I am stronger than that. Nobody will ever be able to hurt me as much as I hurt myself. I am stronger and crueler than your words and your actions. I am stronger and colder and crueler to myself than your words and your actions will ever be. You cannot touch me. This is my armor.

She knows this is wrong, and this is her sickness. But she will not and cannot change. This, too, is her sickness. So she embraces this half-life, this self-cruel life because it helps her sleep.