He didn't know why he punished himself. Why he dragged the sharp blade across his wrists as he slumped in the shadowy corners of the bathroom. He supposed that after all he had been through, pain was his only constant, the only thing he could be sure would still be there in the morning. It wouldn't desert him like so many others had: his mother, his father, his girlfriends. No, the pain was there to stay. It wasn't physical pain, although his father had seen to it that he felt more than enough of that. His pain now was purely emotional and, in his opinion, the worst kind. Bruises and cuts faded, leaving only faint, pink scars. Emotional pain ripped into you and refused to let go. And when it did release you from its grasp, it left behind huge, gaping holes in your heart, a constant reminder. And that was almost as bad as the pain itself.