The marks on her arm meant nothing. The pictures of him meant nothing. The calls on her answering machine from her best friend meant nothing. The blood spattered on the floor, in uneven, crimson patterns—well, that also meant nothing. Nothing at all.

She had it all. Everything she ever—thought about, dreamed about, cared about. She had it. And then she let it slip through her fingers.

She cheated on that boyfriend. The only guy that had ever cared for her—recently, at least. She slept with her cheating ex. What did it matter? She hadn't cared for the nice, doting guy anyway. He wasn't the one she loved.

The woman ignored her friend—she just didn't understand. The friend never would. It was all just a load of crap. Always spewing out of her mouth.

She ignored the pain. The pain of the scalpel slicing her wrists. Sure, it hurt, but didn't everything hurt eventually? Name one thing…

Plus, in some sick, morbid way, it was all worth it. The parallel lines that let scarlet blood crawl from her veins. The way that they healed—quickly, since she was physically healthy—to form the lightest pink of scars, just waiting to be cut again.

She savored the dark—she could mourn there. She could hold that dingy photograph to her face, pretending to remember the last time she had lain eyes on that tan face. Pretending to remember the way his voice rang out in her ears that fatal day. Pretending to remember the last words he had said to her.

She pretended because it was easier than facing the reality. The reality that he had been so, so…stupid as to allow himself to be sideswiped by a drakon. The reality that he had just kissed her, slipped a cold band of metal around her finger. The reality that the euphoria had come crashing down in one ill-fated walk in the woods. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

There had been the days when she stayed in touch with everyone from that time. Days when she returned her friend's calls. Days when she was healthy, when she visited the grave to put flowers at the base of the granite marker. Days when she believed she could survive.

Those days had been a lie.

And so she lay there, on the bed, letting her blonde curls fall over, nearly touching the floor. She let the blood drip from her arms. She let the answering machine beep away. She let the pictures, faded, crumpled, torn, fall to the ground.

What was there to live for? Her friends wouldn't miss her. They couldn't even understand the new her. They would only be missing a ghost. Besides, that girl had been lost too long ago.

Her love was gone. He was happy, she was told. He wanted her to live life to the fullest, she was told. He wanted her to move on, to find someone to make her happy.

At first, she wanted to. She wanted to move on, to be happy, to find some way to make it through the day without sobbing. That hadn't lasted long.

She caressed his face in the picture, running her bony thumb over the black hair, the green eyes. Then, she let the picture fall to the ground, overlapping the blood, overlapping the fruits of her morbid labor.

Then, she stood, pulling a towel towards her to wipe the blood from her arms. She bandaged the limbs, as she had before. She rose to brush her hair. She rose to dress herself. She rose to begin another day.

She rose to start the cycle once more.