Roger POV:

            I look at the calendar on my wall, crossing off another hellish day I've gone without cutting myself. Two months. 56 whole days have gone by since the last time I used my razor…since the last time I felt at ease, comforted, and relaxed.

            My tomorrow finally came… I wish it hadn't.

            I want to do it every single waking moment of my life. I miss it more than anyone could ever imagine. Who would have thought that I'd miss the physical pain that comes only from a razor or knife - or other sharp object - cutting into my skin? But I do. I miss it so damn much.

            I still constantly find myself holding a knife or other various weapon (pencils with no erasers, pen caps…basically anything I deem sharp enough to damage myself with) to my arm and fighting the screaming in my head and the rage I feel welling up inside me. I never press down though. I can't. Because if I do, that'll mean that Mark was right about me. And I'm determined to prove him wrong.

            There's still a part in the back of my mind, though, that says I'll never be able to stop for good. And I know that's probably right. But, I figure if I can go the rest of the summer without doing it, Mark will drop his suspicions and when the winter comes I can go back to doing it as much as I need to.

            I open the door to my room and go into the kitchen, pouring myself a bowl of Captain Crunch and sit down on the couch.

            Mark had been writing in a notepad, what I assume were notes for his new documentary, but he looks up when he hears me approach.

            " 'Morning Rog."

            My mouth is full of cereal so I nod a hello.

            He continues to stare at me though, just watching me eat and after a while I begin to get uncomfortable.

I turn to look at him. "What?"

            He drops his eyes quickly and mutters, "Nothing."
            "No, seriously, what?"

            He lifts his eyes up to mine again and pauses before saying, "Why do you still wear long sleeves all the time, Roger? I thought you stopped."

            I sigh. "I did stop."

            I take another big bite of my Captain Crunch, hoping to avoid further discussion on the subject.

            "Then why the long sleeves?"

            I glare at him. He wouldn't understand. He doesn't know. Well, actually he probably does know since he got a good look at my arms a few times during the past two months. Even though I stopped cutting myself and there aren't any new scars, the old ones still linger from the past and…well, they're bad to say the least. I hate them. They're the only part of cutting I don't like. Most of the angry, red scratches from the beginning have faded away, but the more recent ones, the deeper, more angry ones, have yet to heal and I doubt they ever will completely.

            If anyone ever caught site of my arms, they'd know my crime in a second. Because what else could have caused scars like the ones I have on my mutilated arms? As far as I know, only Collins knows the truth about what's wrong with me. The others are still in the dark, thinking I've gone back to using, or whatever it is that they think I'm doing.

            I begged Mark not to tell and, to the best of my knowledge, he never did. If anyone found out the truth about what I've been doing, I'd just die. It's bad enough that Mark and Collins know.

            Suddenly, Mark's voice tears me from my thoughts as he gets up from his kitchen chair and walks over to me, saying, "Roger… you didn't cut yourself again, did you?"

            "No!" I yell and move further from him, to the other side of the room.

            "Then why are you acting like this? Why do you still wear long sleeves all the time?"

            "Mark," I plead, "please just leave it alone…"

            I start backing towards my doorway, aware that this action is probably just making things worse, feeding his suspicion, but I don't want him to see my arms. I don't want anyone to. And I know that if I don't get away soon he's going to ask to see them.

            But, no. I'm wrong, he doesn't ask to see them. Instead he grabs my left arm and yanks the sleeve up, then does the same with the right.

            I pull away quickly, pushing the sleeves back down over the dozens of scars, disgusted with myself and positive that now Mark is disgusted with me as well.

            I'm surprised when he just stands there not saying anything, his face showing no signs of disgust or anger…only confusion.

            We keep this up for quite a while, just staring at each other, neither of us willing to make the first move.

            Finally, he breaks the silence by saying, "I don't get it."

            Now it's my turn to look confused. "What do you mean?"
            "I mean, you don't cut yourself anymore, you haven't for two months, it's the end of August and still over 90 degrees outside, and you still wear long sleeved shirts all the time. I don't understand."

            I sigh. "Well, you saw my arms. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out."

            "What, you mean because of your scars?"

            I nod, getting annoyed at his lack on understanding and at having to discuss this subject once again.

            "Well…"  He reaches for my arm again and despite my protests, he rolls up the sleeve. "It's not… that bad…"

            I give him a look and pull my arm away, holding it protectively at my side.

            "Okay… Well if anyone asks, you can tell them you were in a car accident or something."

            "The only people that would ask are my friends. And don't you think they'd know already if I really did get into a car accident?"

            He sighs. "I just don't want to see you suffer, Roger."

            I turn around and start to walk to my room again, but just before entering I turn around and say, "It's a little too late for that, don't you think?" and close the door before he has a chance to say anything else.

Mark POV:

            I stare at Roger's closed door for a few seconds before sighing and deciding it would be best not to press the issue. So I go back to the living room instead and clean up the remains of his breakfast.

            As I walk back to the kitchen table to finish the notes I had started earlier, I notice that the only knife we have, that I usually leave by the sink, isn't there anymore. I remember seeing it there a few days ago, and I don't remember washing it…

            Roger. Of course. I shudder as the image of Roger cutting himself with the knife flashes through my mind.

            Well, at least I know that he hasn't used it…yet. I'll have to tear his room apart later and find that and whatever else he may be hiding in there. Every few weeks, when I notice a kitchen utensil or otherwise sharp object missing, I go through his room and confiscate his newest stash.

            I know that even though he stopped the actual act of cutting himself that he's still depressed and sick, and very much in need of help. The help that he refuses to admit he needs and won't accept from me or anyone else. Collins knows that he stopped, I told him a few weeks ago when I returned the books he let me borrow. He thinks it's great, he's under the impression that Roger's better now and everything is back to normal.

            He couldn't be more wrong. Roger's still depressed and withdrawn. If anything, he's even more depressed now than he was when he was still cutting himself. And I know that's because he didn't deal with the issues that were driving him to do it in the first place.

He just stopped doing it. Never talked about it, just pretended like it wasn't even an issue in the first place. He just simply ignores the problem and denies the existence of any sort of pain whatsoever, and thinks that because he stopped the cutting he's better and therefore doesn't need help and doesn't ever need to talk about it again.

            But he's wrong. Just because the symptoms disappear that doesn't mean the disease is cured. Oh no, Roger is a looooong way from "cured."

            I try to talk to him about it all the time, but Roger refuses to listen or even acknowledge the existence of a problem. He insists that he stopped and that he's fine now and doesn't want to talk about it. But I know that in reality, Roger is anything but fine.     

Roger POV:

            I slam the door to my room shut, kicking it a few times in anger and frustration before flopping face down on my bed and covering my head with my pillow. I've had a very long, bad day and want nothing more than to get my razor out from under my mattress (the only hiding spot I have that Mark doesn't know about) and run the blade over my skin. Just the thought of it makes me shiver with anticipation.

            Suddenly I hear my door creaking open and I look up to see Mark leaning on my doorframe.

            "Don't you ever KNOCK??"

            "Yes. But you never answer. So I gave up on that, it's much easier and less frustrating to just walk in."

            I glare at him and throw the pillow on my bed at him.

            He catches it and tosses it back at me. "Roger, what's wrong?"

            "Nothing's wrong. Leave me alone."

            "Uh huh, sure. When you got home I thought for sure the building was falling down."

            "Fuck you. Leave me alone."

            "No way. I'm staying, for damage control if nothing else," he says, staring at the dent I made in my door from where I kicked it with my heavy boots. "Guess you were kinda mad, huh?"

            I glare at him. "It was either me or the door."

            "Why does it have to be either? Why can't you just deal with things in a less…violent way? And I don't just mean violent to the door…"

            "Yeah, I know what you meant," I say rolling my eyes. But I don't answer the question.

            "Well?" he prods after I don't say anything for a few minutes.

            "What? You mean why can't I not be violent to myself?"

            He cringes just a bit and nods.

            I shrug. "How else would I deal with things?" I reply nonchalantly, too pissed off and upset right now to care what he thinks or to be careful of not revealing too much to him.

            I stretch myself out on my bed again, turning away from him and closing my eyes for a few seconds, hoping that maybe if I ignore him for long enough he'd go away.

            But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, but I can feel his eyes digging into me, which is making me increasingly more uncomfortable as the minutes tick by. I can only imagine the thoughts he must be having right now.

            Finally, I can't take it anymore and I turn around and shout, "What?"

            He looks sad for a moment and shakes his head. But when he looks at me again I can see anger in his eyes, an anger that he's trying to suppress but not succeeding in very well.

            "How else would you deal with things? What about…oh, say TALKING?!"

            His anger and shouting fuel my own, but unlike him I do nothing to try and suppress it. "What the fuck is there to talk about? I fucking stopped cutting myself!! I stopped, why the hell are you still doing this to me?"

            "Doing what to you Roger? Talking to you, trying to help?"

"Help? Is your idea of 'help' nagging someone to fucking death, trying to force them to talk about something that really really really makes them uncomfortable? Something that they've told you about a million fucking times they don't want to discuss? Because if it is, you're doing a fucking GREAT job!" I say sarcastically.

            He lets go of all the anger he'd been trying to hide as he yells, "I'm only trying to help you, Roger! I don't know why. I don't know why I haven't fucking given up by now! I should have a long time ago! Because it's obvious that you care about no one but yourself and you don't care who the hell you hurt by doing these things to yourself. 'Cause hey, as long as it makes you feel better, what the hell right? I've been trying so fucking hard here, Roger! Do you think it's not hurting me too when you do this? When I suddenly find the kitchen knife gone one day, only to find it later on in your room? You know, all those months ago, I would find blood around the loft. And I would try to tell myself that you had a nosebleed, or just cut yourself shaving. Because I didn't want to believe that you would do something like this to yourself, Roger. I didn't want to believe that you were hurting yourself. But y'know, even though you're the one taking a fucking razor and cutting yourself open, I'm the one that's gotten hurt the most. Because I've had to sit her and suffer all those months watching you do it! Cleaning up your blood, hiding the razors, hiding the knife, lying to myself about what was going on, then trying to help and being slapped in the face! All I've been doing from the beginning was trying to help. Well, I GIVE UP! I can't take it anymore! You obviously have NO intention whatsoever of trying to get better, so I give up on trying to help. You want to be left alone? Fine! You got it!" And with that he storms out of my room, slamming the door, hard, behind him.

            I jump off my bed and kick the closed door a few more times, trying to release all the feelings that are welling up inside of me but it's no use. There's only one thing that can make them go away, and I know that if I don't do it now, I'm going to go completely insane and probably destroy the entire apartment…the whole building probably.

            I grab the razor from under my mattress as fast as I can and hastily drag the cool piece of metal across my forearm, going deeper and deeper with each cut. But I don't care. All that matters now is getting these emotions that threaten to tear me apart inside, out of me.

            Finally, after I've done quite a number on both my arms, I begin to feel sane again and I let the razor slip from my hands, just staring at the blood that is flowing steadily down my arms and onto the floor. I can almost see all the anger and hurt and frustration flow out of my body with the blood and I sigh, relaxed and calm for the first time in months.

            I almost want to cry at how good this feels, but along with the feeling of satisfaction there is another one: guilt. Guilt, not only because I cut myself again, after promising myself that I'd stop for the time being, but also because Mark's words have finally started to sink in.

            I knew that would happen. I knew it, and that's exactly why I didn't talk to him or tell him anything about what was going on or how I felt. I was just so mad…so fucking pissed off, and I let myself slip. I revealed to him that the pain I've grown to love so much was the only way I could deal with the things that eat me up on the inside.

            That's what had started everything. And Mark's right. He shouldn't have to deal with this…shouldn't have to deal with me. I tried to protect him, I tried so hard to keep all these things a secret because I knew what would happen if I let any of it slip out. And I was right.

            Suddenly the entire argument, all the screaming and yelling, begins playing back in my head and I feel the familiar desire racing through my body again. I look down at my razor, still on the floor, and at the blood that is still flowing heavily from the wounds I inflicted upon myself.

            Well, I already screwed up. I already broke my promise to myself. There's no point in continuing to fight the impulses, I already messed up and cut myself so it doesn't matter anymore.

            And with that knowledge soothing the guilt I feel as I pick up the razor once again, I don't hesitate this time as I bring it to my flesh and release the anguish inside of me that knows no other escape other than out of my body through my blood.