April 28, 2007:
Blood.
Orange-red. Fresh. On the tiles, the curtain, around the drain. In the corner the thin bent blade, once part of a plastic disposable razor which now lies in shreds, torn apart by strong fingers, the way convicts learn to do in prison.
Under the sheets she hides her skin. "Nothing is wrong," she says, dishonestly. In the morning you'll find it. Forearms, shoulders, thighs. Parallel lines like scratches, the marks claws would leave. Signifiers of the kind of spiritual pain only saints know, or lunatics.