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They are arguing again. Perhaps for the last time. Already the house has been rent and torn. Glass in slivers lies in the doorway. It crunches underneath my feet. I wonder how it would feel pressed against my skin, the drops of blood beginning to fall and puddle. The arguing is loud and it echoes throughout the house. The children pretend not to hear it. It's just another day in the life. Sort of like that book you wrote a paper on in high school but never read. I look at their eyes and they are filled with a sharp fear. I rub at my arms, feeling the skin cold underneath my fingertips. I am so cold inside; nothing will ever warm me again.

The argument reaches its crescendo and then it tapers off. He is coming down the stairs, his face blank. His shoes are loud against the floor, the anger he is feeling evident in his step. When he sees me standing in the doorway he makes his way to the couch and sits down. For a moment I wonder what I should do and then I decide I want to talk to him. Perhaps I will never see him again after he makes his way out of the house for the last time. That is his promise. The threat he used to keep us in check, to keep us from making him leave.

I sit opposite him; he is looking down at his hands. He does not speak at first and I find that I can say nothing; the words are struggling and trapped within my throat. I clasp my hands together and I wait, for he will say something, even if only to poison my mind further against my mother. He has imparted much propaganda on the evils of her actions and I have accepted them, trusting him. I have always trusted him, ever since I was a little girl, small and helpless. There is just something about my father that makes me feel safe and unsafe at the same time. As if he has claws that may be unsheathed at any time.

"Thank you," he says, his eyes look directly into my own.

"For what," my voice is small, I hate it.

"For showing me. It really does work. Thank you." He holds out his arm and it is marked closely with cuts, the blood dried and smeared. I don't know what to say. Is he trying to coax guilt out of me? If so, he has succeeded. It makes no sense. He had always been the one driving his arms into walls and hitting himself with clenched fists. Not the delicate precision of cutting, just strength and force. I showed him nothing, he had known it before I ever took that blade to my arm.

"Yeah, it does work. That's why I do it. Are you going to keep doing it?" My voice is steady and I feel better, I don't want to point out that his thanks are a sort of condemnation.

"I'm not stupid," is all he says. Another stinging remark, like so many he has dealt over the years. Rather unfairly, for he usually forgets to include the children in his crusade unless they are making noise.

"Oh," I cannot say any more. The back of my throat aches, fiercely reminding me of my self-destruction. He has always viewed it as rather stupid, my pressing burning metal against my arm or sticking my fingers down my throat.

My eyes drift across the broken room, the china dolls that had been displayed so proudly turned to splinters of glass and cloth and soft hair. He leaves and I do not say goodbye. In a few minutes the arguing begins again, just as it has always done.

I sit and stare at the floor and wonder when it will be over. After a few minutes I take the broom and start sweeping it up. The largest slivers of glass are placed underneath the couch, waiting for the time when I will retrieve them. The rest goes into a black garbage bag I've taken out of the cabinet in the kitchen.

My mother is running down the stairs, calling for the children, for me.

"We have to leave," she is saying to them and I stand there, my mind blank. Leaving for where? My father is behind her. He looks as he always does, gruff and intimidating.

His voice is rough, catching slightly, "Take Cleo." I cannot feel my body, my mind is up and above me, leaving only useless flesh. He is going to kill himself. I can see it. He is going to kill himself and we're going to leave him there.

"Are you going to kill yourself?" I look at him. He tries to smile but ultimately fails.

"Why would I do something like that?" Not an answer, not the right answer. I run up the stairs and gather Cleo, my guinea pig, into my arms. She is plump and warm; the sound of her squealing is loud in my ears. I run back down, past my father and out the front door. I don't look back. What can I do? I can't save him from himself.

My mother is waiting in the car with the children. Her face is white. I buckle myself in and know what I am going to do.

I have been there many times before, with pills in my hand, waiting for the signal to take them and end my life. He will not choose pills, too simple for him. He will let the gas fill the house and light a match. He will be shaking and uncertain. If only I could have said something to him. If only.