Choking on unknown sorrows I waddled back to my room and let the remainder of the evening go by in a dreamlike flurry of unconnected actions. text, text, text. wait. glare. burst into tears. text, text. stare at the dim rectangular screen. burst into tears. At the back of my mind – Remember last year? When you carved those beautiful parallel lines? Those patterns that gave you a momentary relief from all the mental and emotional pain? Look for it again. In a frenzy, I desperately searched for my tool. It was missing. I racked my brains, going over every possible situation. Not in this carton, not in that drawer, not in this box. Where the fuck?! Knife. I rushed to my friend’s room and retrieved the loaned knife. It wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. I left on my table and curled up next to my phone. Lines. Lines. The pattern is waiting my love. Tortured by the thought, I resumed my search and came out successful. Under the soft glow of orange lights I cut through my skin. It didn’t bleed. Gripping the tool tighter I lashed out and still didn’t see red. I sat back, held my wrist between my knees and with all my concentration, drew the famed parallel lines. It bleeds now. It bleeds.