A Cut Into A Hollow Wound I took the train home last night after spending equal time drinking in an apartment and drinking in a pub. The air around me smelled like whiskey, but I'll never admit that I was drunk. The train was as busy as you would expect for late Friday night. I managed to get a seat on one of the empty benches in the hall. At the next stop, a group of goth kids got on and took the other seats on the benches around me. All five of them sat down except for one, a girl whose hair was hiding her face like a drawn window shade.

I stood up and offered her my seat, which she graciously but apprehensively accepted. One of her friends cooed sincerely at my gesture. As the girl sat quietly across from me while her friends talked among themselves, she pulled up her black sleeves, possibly because she was warm or possibly because she wanted to show them.

There were cuts on the inside of her arm, dozens of them, ranging from scratches to gashes. They were bright against her skin but she couldn't see them. Her hair was pulled down so low in front of her, hiding them from her and her from the world. She rubbed her left arm softly, hoping her right might erase the impulsiveness of her youth. It didn't, and so she just sat there quietly, living.  ¶ 8:03 PM