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She tries to warm her hands, placing them close to the light. They are thin, fingers fragile and they cast shadows against the wall. She feels weak, listening to the never ending hiss of that person in her head. The one that hurls words and screams. Her hands make their way away from the light. It is futile to try and warm them. She will never be warm. The cold has crept in, perhaps through the torn flesh of her arm, and it will never leave again. Her fingers clutch at the flesh of her wrist, touching the rough wounds, ripping them open with long fingernails.

Outside she can hear the rustle of papers being shuffled, the low sound of talking and footsteps making their away across the floor. Her roommate had left only that morning, smiles overtaking her face but not reaching her eyes. She had looked at her own eyes in the mirror, searching for that piece of life that will remind her that she is real. They were dead and closed off and she could see nothing in them but that terrible blankness. After a few moments she had looked away, hands twisting together.

She looks at the empty bed across from her own and wishes that it were filled with somebody. Somebody she can laugh with and who can help her forget the emptiness. In a while a worker would come by, checking to make sure she is still alive. Of course she is. Would she be anything else?

The taste of medicine is still on her tongue, heavy in her throat. Those moments of weakness and of numbness lack clarity. She had felt nothing when she had found out that it had not worked. She had not cast off her life as she had planned. Her hands are rubbing together absentmindedly as she remembers. It had been like making her way through a sea of fog, being taken to the hospital and being handled carefully by the staff. As if she would break and slip away into the emptiness.

There is no point in remembering. She did not succeed and now she is dealing with the consequences. Dealing with soft voiced doctors that ask her why. She tells them and they frown and pretend sympathy.

She hears the door open and the sound of footsteps but does not look to see who it is. They say something and she, not hearing it, puts her hand up and shuts off the light. The footsteps retreat and the door closes softly. Now she is in dark, the light from the outside streaming in and making shadow.

he reaches for her. blankets have been placed over the windows. his touch is light and she shivers, wondering when it will be over. he speaks and she listens, her mind trying to process what he is saying. the hands slip further down and she slides away from him, trying to escape those questing hands. he reaches for her again and his hand is firm against her back. she will have to stay.

Nights have always been worse. At night she cannot block the images in her head, snapshots from the past. She cannot pretend she is Fine and that she does not need to be here. Her throat aches and she can taste the remains of sour vomit inside her mouth. Her stomach is empty and it hurts steadily.

She wonders if she can do it. If she can throw her life away.

shaking hands reaching for pills. placing them in her mouth. taste. swallow. taste. swallow. it goes on forever. she does not have water. not there as she crouches by the cabinet.

Perhaps all it would take is her bedsheets. Can she tie them into a noose and form a knot. It probably wouldn't work. Her throat is closing up, imagining the rough feel of cloth scraping and shutting off her breath. She can't. Not tonight.

Instead she stands up and makes her way to the bathroom. Opening the door she places herself in front of the sink and stares into her own eyes in the mirror. Maybe she will become real that way. After a few minutes she gives up. She is not real.

The door is shut by her hand; it looks so far away, floating. Turning the lock, shutting the world out. She slips her hand into the pocket and takes out the twisted up toilet paper. Inside is a single razor blade, glinting and grinning up at her. Maybe she should take it to her face and cut her eyes out, leaving dark holes. That way she would never have to see herself, anyone again. She would resign herself to the dark.

The blade trails across her arm, a slow fire that leaves behind a perfect line. Blood is already running, already gathering. It runs down her arm, warm and so alive. She runs it across the inside of her arm and presses down, hoping that it will slip and do what she cannot do. There is the steady sound of the blood dripping onto the floor, staining the tiles crimson.

She can hear someone knocking on the door, calling her. Opening her mouth to speak, to say she's ok, she changes her mind. Today she is not ok. Tomorrow she will not be ok. The knocking has turned to pounding and there are excited voices out there. She only cuts herself again and watches the blood.

She is still watching the blood when they rush in and pluck the blade from numb fingers. Her voice has been struck dumb and she does not respond to their questions. Her mind is quiet, the tyrant appeased. The quiet is inviting. When they lead her away she does not drag her feet. They will take care of her and she will let them. That is all they can do. The dark has been chased away and she is safe for a moment.

his hand clutching at the back of her head, forcing it down.

A scream is trapped in her throat. She stares vacantly and tries to forget. Inside she knows she will never forget. The dark will never leave. She will be shut out of the light forever and ever and there is no happy ending.