• She told me all about it. I could picture it in my mind. Cowering in the corner of her room. Tears streaming down her face. The knife running down her wrist in the familiar pattern. Blood dripping down her arm. She's tired of wearing jackets, but she can't stop. The scars will stay with her forever, a wicked reminder of those moments in the corner of her room. We all tried to help her. Talk her out of the cutting, the pain, the scars. But she wouldn't listen, couldn't listen. Nothing we did could help her. Now she's gone, shipped off for phycologists to poke and prod her, to people she doesn't even know, people who can't possibly care about her the way that we care about her. I should have been able to help her, but I couldn't. And now its too late, she's gone, and I might never see her again.