And what was clear unblemished skin, below the fading scars of the past, now holds three fresh cuts. But the wrist is thin and soft, and this time, the second cut’s a millimetre too deep. So she bleeds, she drops to the floor and she bleeds. She bleeds until the tears are dry, the blood’s dark and spread out all over the porcelain white tile underneath her palm, turning into one hard blot with the passing of each minute. Her head’s heavy and breaths are ragged. The sting from each time the shiny metal met her young skin is long gone. Her body’s numb. And then one final breath, her eyes close with her lips still parted. There will be no more pain, no more hate, no more nights spent crying till her eyes hurt. It’s over.