When it really works, you can feel it.

You can feel the anger, the stress, any emotion tied to anything at all flooding out of you and onto your skin, in small, wet puddles of red. First, there's the relief. You did it. It worked. For at least one night, you are free.

But that's before the panic sets in.

If it really works, there's going to be a lot of blood. If it really works, the blood won't die down quickly. It takes ages. Sometimes, you fall asleep thinking you'll never wake up again.

When you do wakeup, you're never sure what to make of it.

For one more day, you get to live. You get to roll out of bed at six a.m. and shower and brush your teeth. You get to eat breakfast with Turk and Carla, and watch the gooey romance unfold. You get to go to work, spend the entire day being called woman's names by a man you can't help but look up to. You get to watch good patients die for what seems like no real reason whatsoever.

Sickness doesn't count, everyone's sick.

At the end of the day, you get to choke down your dinner and repeat the process all over again.

You can see why I love life so much.

The morning is clear but my mind is groggy. The sheets on my bed are stained red from last night's success, and I leave them. Carla and Turk won't notice- they're just as busy as me, with their schedules and lives.

Lives; what a fucking word for them. If anyone knows how showing up for some miserable job and getting paid is living, please, explain it to me. I guess knowing that they have each other could make it better- Carla has Turk like I used to have Turk.

When I had Turk, that ridiculous thing we call 'life' with our tongues in our cheeks actually felt like living. When I had Elliot, I could almost laugh.

The kitchen is empty, so I sit down, thankful to be alone. I don't eat; I place my head on the table where the bowl should be. Something about eating makes my stomach churn. My head is my bowl.

Carla walks into the kitchen but I don't see her, I hear the thud of her shoes against our apartment's floor. She stops and I can feel her eyes on me. I don't move. If I don't move, maybe she'll think I'm dead.

Everyone can go about their business as normal; everything's fine. I'm just a little dead, that's all.

"Bambi," she says, her voice is so caring that it makes me sick. "Are you feeling alright?"

I turn my head slightly. If it was really a bowl, the cereal would spill. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

From my awkward position, I can see the bottom of her face. Her mouth is lined in worry.

She'll really make an excellent mother.

"I'm not so sure, Bambi. You look bad. Do you want me to call in sick for you?" That voice. That voice. That voice.

It's enough to make anything soft.

I nod, aware of how mean my thoughts are, but I can't help it. I'm just an evil son of a bitch.

I'm dozing in and out of it, not quite sure what's wrong. Am I sick?

What did I do last night?

Oh.

She's helping me into bed when she sees the stains. The way her mouth opens is comic; it just keeps opening and shutting, talking but not talking. Her mouth keeps opening, never letting out a sound, and never saying anything.

Sound familiar?

I almost laugh. Finally, she speaks. "Bambi, is this blood?" Her voice is shriller now, more on edge.

Panic has finally entered dear Carla's voice.

I don't answer, but she knows anyway. There's anger in her eyes as she turns on her heal. She stops by the door.

"I'm calling us both in sick." She says. The sweetness is gone. How the world gets to us all. "We are going to talk about this."

I would say something about our patients, how they'll need us to be there, but I'm beyond caring. Everyone dies at some point. We might as well all do it now.