It was 2AM. Anna had awoken from the same dream that taunted her continually, awake or asleep. Rubbing her temples, she began to rationalize her condition.
I spent the day arguing with my husband about the future we both want, but that I'm already afraid of losing. He then fled the country on "business" less than an hour before the Day of Compassion. She sighed heavily, realizing how much she hated to admit that she needed him. Of course, Aiden was there, but the nephew she barely knew could only provide minimal comfort compared to the man who knew her inside and out.
All at once, the images from her dream that had been pleasantly fading only moments ago came rushing back, no longer as figments of her imagination. She crawled to the bathroom, crouched on the cold floor. The years she'd lost-- The past she often didn't want to accept was reeling painfully in her mind.
With great effort, one thought finally broke triumphantly above the rest. I have now. The past is gone, but I have my life back: I have my daughter, my sister, David... But in the far corners of her head, her own voice whispered that maybe she didn't deserve it.
One last memory appeared before leaving Anna alone.
Bart had taken the knife from Anna's hands. She watched fearfully as he fetched the first aid kit from beside the fireplace, and brought it beside where she sat in a corner, ashamed, and frightened as a small child.
He pulled her bloodstained hand from her wrist, and held it for a moment. Anna closed her eyes tightly, waiting for a scolding. Bart would be as angry as she was at herself. Silence, however, lingered. She bit her lip as she felt the sting of the antiseptic. Bart's calloused fingers quickly smeared ointment over the wound.
"I'm sorry," Bart said as he slowly returned the ointment to the first aid kit. Anna's heart broke.
"Bart," she whispered desperately, "this has nothing to do with you." The last thing she wanted was for this man who had cared for her so deeply over the past years to hold himself responsible for her actions. "This isn't about you hurting me, Bart. My God, you've never done anything to harm me. I did this to myself. I hope with all my heart I haven't hurt you."
"You're the one who's bleeding, Anna." With hands as heavy as his heart, Bart wrapped gauze around her tender wrists. Anna watched in silence; she couldn't explain the kind of relief she felt when she'd taken the knife, when she'd glideded it over her skin, when she'd watched her cut begin to cry tears that she could not.
Bart finished dressing the wound, but still held Anna's wrist in his hands. He brought it to his cheek, then cradled it softly against him. Briefly, Anna caught his misty eyes, before both tilted their heads towards the ground. Then in a voice that was not critical, harsh, or condescending, Bart simply said, "I wish you hadn't done this." He took a husky breath, and Anna leaned in to hug him.
They embraced one another, Bart hoping he could take away whatever pain it was that had brought her to that point, Anna secretly praying that she could take away whatever pain her actions had caused him.
The fire flickered their shadows across the brick walls, and the memory faded into the darkness, bringing her back to the cold bathroom floor, only a few feet from the shower, where the metallic edge of her razor had begun to hypnotize her.
She tried to shake herself. I'm not going to do this again, she struggled to convince herself. She stood, her hand reaching for the false hope of the blade.
She wanted to cry, but couldn't. Her stomach was knotting, her mind was being consumed by fog, her heart was racing, she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe-- her hand shot out toward the shower, then recoiled, blade in hand. Below the traces of scars from years ago, blood began to bead to the surface.
The cut was not deep. She threw the razor back into the shower regretfully-- she'd done it again. But she felt her muscles relax. The fog lifted from her mind, her heart began to calm. Staring at the scarlet drops beaded along the razor's victim brought her a welcome peace—but it was a peace that scared her. Mechanically, she turned on the faucet and rinsed the blood away in a flash of pinkened water. She dried the cut carefully, and stuck a band aid halfheartedly over it. After flipping out the light, she crashed into bed, and drifted to sleep with more ease than she'd experienced in weeks.
The next morning, she would awaken rested and peaceful, but her mind would not longer be at ease. She had cut herself again for the first time in years. What was driving her to do it she still would not be able to grasp-- she would tell herself that her behavior was ridiculous, and would not be repeated. But it would be too late. It would not take long before she would be living her life as a captive on the razor's edge.