I sat Indian style on the bed, naked with my mind stripped of thoughts. I stared up at the single light bulb that flickered above the bed and wondered why it just didn’t give into the darkness. I stole a glance at your bare back and watched your eyes in the mirror you were looking in. I whispered that I was sorry, and you gruffly asked what for. I replied for being sad. I looked down at the angry scars on my thighs and stomach and wished I could take back the night. You followed my eyes and scowled at the marks. “I thought you loved me.” “You know I do.” “Then why hurt yourself?” It was a valid question but one I could not answer without the use of a device that projected the vivid thoughts in my mind. I needed to show him the tangled knots inside of me that connected me to the world. The ones that wrapped around my veins and strangled them effortlessly. Why did I hurt myself? The same reason I got up in the morning; I had to. “I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t know either. Can you stop?” Another reasonable question. It would have been so easy to say yes. I wanted to stop because I hated pain. I had no tolerance for it; paper cuts brought me to tears. But giving it up would have been giving up my control, and I’m sure I would have spiraled to an even darker state of mind. Why can’t I stop? Why can’t the lightbulb give in to the darkness? It’s the same question. “I don’t know,” I answered. I took the next few moments to compose myself. I told myself that I didn’t need him to be happy because I was never happy anyway. I walked out the door and with each step felt the string connecting him to me pull tighter. I listened closely for the sound of footsteps following but there were none. The only thing I can’t remember about that night is who was the first one to leave.