She feels as if a weight is sitting heavily in her chest, a great lump of dread. The tears begin there, you see, in her heart. They build and begin to flow down her face. Gasping sobs of fear and despair, no dainty tears for her. Her long blonde hair hangs limply in front of her green eyes as she hugs her knees to her chest, trying to draw every piece of her in. Wanting to disappear. The weight in her chest makes it difficult to move, but the pain consuming her makes it necessary. She summons the energy and stands up. Rummages through her purse, stopping to rest once or twice. Finally, she finds what she is looking for and sinks back onto her bed, already exhausted. She runs her finger along the cool metal of the blade wrested from her pink plastic razor. Her mind is now curiously empty. The sight and the feel of the blade allow her to sigh, an ephemeral release. She's so tired. Does she really need to cut herself? Won't she be okay without it? If only the razor could just go away...magically transform into a warm, loving hug. But no. She mustn't try to escape or back down. She's already come this far. Tears again fill her eyes as she idly, lightly, draws the blade across her hipbone. Two, three, seven lines of red. It stings a little, once she stops. Eleven, fourteen, twenty shallow cuts. She supposes it's enough. The thin crimson lines are quite beautiful; her hip looks a bit tortured. Good- now her outsides match her insides. She lies back , rests her eyes a little. But she must put the blade away, flush the bloody tissues, put a Band-Aid on the woefully shallow cuts. She does it all, lazily, her sadness and damaged body making her bone tired. She checks her blood sugar. 450. She does not bolus. She lays in bed, feeling as if she's being sucked into a vortex. She is unable to keep her eyes open any longer: she drifts off to sleep, hand cupping her wounded hipbone.