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It's blue, my favorite color.

I get up and open it. Her lipstick is there, and there's a small star-shaped box.

I open it and see blades, new ones. I've already caught Mom using them, after she's had too much to drink or Dad has hurt her. The first time I saw her use them was when Dad's friend came out of my room and my pajamas were ripped and my pants were bleeding.

She had cut herself on the back of her arms.

I never understood why she did it, but if it hurt before and she smiled afterward, maybe that would help me too?

I take one and try to do it on a hidden part of my body; I don't want Dad to see them, even though he wouldn't care. I try it first on the tip of my finger and it stings; it turns red and I see my blood flowing down my skin. It doesn’t hurt.

What will happen if I do this? Would it help?

I pull my shorts up a little and start on my thigh.

One line, then a second.

And I breathe, I concentrate on what it feels like. It helps, strangely enough, it helps. The bad feeling is stopping, and I don't cry anymore, everything is slow. I do it again on the other thigh, and I close my eyes.

I shouldn't tell anyone, not even Hayzel.

This is a secret.

I don't know how bad this is, I only know the noise stopped, for the first time, it's quiet.

“Now I understand Mom…” I whisper to no one. “It does make you feel happier.”

26

Damien

Play - Lights Are On by Tom Rosenthal

Subconscious mind

The gravel crunches beneath the wheels of the car as I pull up to the old cottage I rented away from school grounds and park next to the flower bed. I never pay close attention to the flowers. They made no difference to me growing up even though my mother used to love putting fresh ones on the table in the mornings before breakfast.

Still, the flowers are quite beautiful.

The early morning air cuts through me as I make my way to the house. So many thoughts plague my mind. My student, the case, the serial killer. Everything.

The lock sticks when I push the key in, and dust greets me the moment the door opens. I drop my bag by the stairs and stand there, exhaling a long breath, exhausted from this first week.

Fuck.

A beer waits in the fridge, courtesy of the elderly couple who owns the place. They always make sure there’s something here when they stop by.

The office looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. The oak desk sits beneath the bay window, overlooking the flower beds that have grown wild outside.

My mind casts itself back to the night I found Miss Vitelli on a rooftop for the first time. Cold, and lonely.

And today again, she was there, wet hair and damp cheeks, bloodshot eyes. She looked like she had been crying. I had to fight against the urge to go up there and bring her down.

I should've stayed with her, made sure she was alright. I mean, she said she was, but I know more than most, that is just an excuse you use when you want to brush someone off.

I should've stayed with her.

Why didn't I stay?