At nights like this, loneliness consumes her. She is so trapped by the horror of solitude, she cannot do anything but to draw her knees towards her chest and bury her face onto her knees. She cannot even cry, and that is what frustrates her. She is numb. She feels everything at once but there is no way for her to deal with them. She wants to scream and cry. She wants to kneel down and ask for God’s forgiveness. She wants to blame God and throw herself out of the window. All of a sudden, an idea flashes on her mind. She imagines running her fingertips over the sharp metal of the blade. Just one cut. Just one quick cut. She wants to cut herself, to see the mark on her skin. She thinks of the ways of how she would cover the cut, but at the same time she wishes people would see. She is desperate for attention. She wonders if she would find the love of her life with the scar on her wrist. She remembered very well of the hidden cutter on her second drawer. She knew very well that she could just reach out for the drawer and pick up that cutter. But she doesn’t. It was not because she was not suicidal, or the fact that she did not want to feel the pain. She wanted to cut herself more than anyone. She just did not know how to deal with the consequences, or whether she was ready for them. She wanted her future lover to caress her scar, to fall for her illness. But she did not want her future child to run its tiny fingers over the same scar and ask her what it was. She did not want her future child to grow up, thinking that it was okay to cut. So she stands to turns out the light, and goes back to bed. She pulls up the duvet to cover her body. In the darkness, she closes her eyes, her mind fighting with her own demons, hoping for a better day tomorrow. ?