Wrist Slitting Quotes

Singing songs that make you slit your wrists

Kaye: You know what the sun looks like? Janet: No, What? Kaye: Like he slit his wrists in a bathtub and the blood is all over the water. Janet: That's gross, Kaye. Kaye: And the moon is just watching. She's just watching him die. She must have driven him to it.

What else is there to do in college except drink beer or slit one's wrists?

Seven little crazy kids chopping up sticks; One burnt her daddy up and then there were six. Six little crazy kids playing with a hive; One tattooed himself to death and then there were five. Five little crazy kids on a cellar door; One went all schizo and then there were four. Four little crazy kids going out to sea; One wouldn't say a word and then there were three. Three little crazy kids walking to the zoo; One jerked himself too much and then there were two. Two little crazy kids sitting in the sun; One a took a bunch of pills and then there was one. One little crazy kid left all alone; He went and slit his wrists, and then there were none.

They say that if you really want to kill yourself, no one can stop you. There are too many ways to do it. You can jump off a bridge or a building. You can hang yourself. You can crash a car or slit your wrists or swim out really far into the ocean until you drown. Sometimes I wonder why I'm not dead, if I really wanted to kill myself.

That same piercing screech in her voice every time at the hospital. "Do something!" When I slit my wrists. "Help her!" The last time too. "Somebody help her. Help us!" You're helpless, both of you. All of us.

The first time she carved something into her skin, she used the sharp tip of an X-Acto knife. She lifted up her shirt to show me after the cuts had scabbed over. She had scrawled F*** YOU on her stomach. I stood quiet for a moment, feeling the breath get knocked out of me. I should have grabbed her arm and taken her straight to the nurse's office, into that small room with two cots covered in paper sheets and the sweet, stale medicinal smell. I should have lifted Ingrid's shirt to show the cuts. Look, I would've said to the nurse at her little desk, eyeglasses perched on her pointed nose. Help her. Instead, I reached my hand out and traced the words. The cuts were shallow, so the scabs only stood out a little bit. They were rough and brown. I knew that a lot of girls at our school cut themselves. They wore their long sleeves pulled down past their wrists and made slits for their thumbs so that the scars on their arms wouldn't show. I wanted to ask Ingrid if it hurt to do that to herself, but I felt stupid, like I must have been missing something, so what I said was, F*** you too, b****. Ingrid giggled, and I tried to ignore the feeling that something good between us was changing.

I need to prolong this moment; it’s not often I gain the upper hand. I put on lipstick using the wall as a mirror. The color is called Flamethrower and it’s my trademark. Vicious, violent, poisonous red. Slit-wrists red. The color of the devil’s underpants,according to Dad. I have so many tubes that I always have a tube within a three-foot radius. I am black and white, but thanks to Flamethrower, I can be Technicolor. I live in terror of it being discontinued by the manufacturer, hence my hoarding.

Anyway I was in the school nurse’s office now recovering from my slit wrists. Snap and Loopin and HAHRID were there too. They were going to St. Mango’s after they recovered cause they were pedofiles and you can’t have those fucking pervs teaching in a school with lots of hot gurlz. Dumbledore had constipated the cideo camera they took of me naked. I put up my middle finger at them.

I found posts about how to slit your wrists the "right way", so you will actually die, and that depressed me, because people actually post stuff like that, and even though I wanted to know the answer, so I could weigh my options, that info maybe shouldn't be on the internet... But really - why do some people post the correct ways to commit suicide on the internet? Do they want weird, sad people like me to go away permanently? Do they think it's a good idea for some people to off themselves? How can you tell when you are one of those people who should slash his wrists the right way with a razor blade? Is there an answer for that too? I Googled but nothing concrete came up. Just ways to complete the mission. Not justification.

I wish slitting the wrist of the clock would let this moment last forever – your tongue so deep in my ear it feels like a paintbrush, coating the dark, peeling walls inside my head with a carmine veneer.

I felt a little depress then, so I slit my wrists. I read a depressing book while I waited for it to stop bleeding

Ten minutes later, his suicide letter was done. The handwriting was legit, and he got a nice incentive to play along, seeing as I gave him a deal he couldn’t refuse. “Write the letter and go peacefully, swallowing a bunch of pills. Don’t write the letter and I slit your wrists in your bathtub and watch you bleed. Either way, you’ll be dead before dinnertime, and it will look like suicide. The awful, messy way or the peaceful way? Up to you.” He chose the pills.

Problem with the big philosophers is they cared about ideas more than people. Hegel would probably have stepped over a guy trying to slit his wrists outside a bar — to get to all the people he could sit and bullshit with inside. Did you know half of philosophy was first put into words by people shot in the ass?

They say his people pumped her full of uppers and forced her to dance barefoot on broken glass until eventually she fell and managed to grab a shard. She slit her wrists herself just to end it

The memories are still rattling around my head, twisting into me like a knife. I don’t want to wait around to see what comes next for me I’m this tragic story I’m living. I open up one of my father’s unused razors and cut into my wrist like he did, slit in a curve until it smiles so everyone will know I died for happiness

When you’re feeling despondent just put on more country music. There are thousands of slit-your-wrist hillbilly songs that will make you laugh at your self-indulgence and ultimately cheer you up.

I wish I could break this window. Step through it. But I can't break this window. I can't even find some less dramatic way to die inside of this school, like hanging myself or slitting my wrists, because what would they do with my body? It might put everyone at risk. I won't let myself do that. I'm not selfish like Lily. I hate her. I hate her so much my heart tries to crawl out of my throat but it gets stuck there and beats crazily in the too narrow space. I bring my hands to my neck and try to massage it back down. I pres so heard against the skin, my eyes sting, and then I'm hurrying back down the stairs, back to the first floor. I think of Trace running laps, something he can control.

I should think people would be disappointed if they watched that kind of movie and then came to see us dance and none of us slit our wrists onstage or made ourselves vomit or got on the backs of motorcycles while wearing tutus and started fucking each other.

The life I've lived What more can one ask for Apart from a grand exit Slit of the wrist Total bliss

Lots of this shit’s creepy, Sky. No wonder you’re sitting here all by yourself, listening to wrist-slitting music.

She sounded just like my mother, and I knew that if I didn’t interrupt, the lecture would escalate until I wanted to slit my wrists just to give her something to mop so she would. Stop. Talking.

You shanks are driving me nuts. Can’t get out of the Maze, and this idea of hanging with the Grievers at their bachelor pad sounds as stupid as anything I’ve ever heard in my life. Might as well slit our wrists.

The point is that by seventh period, he’s been exposed to four hours of grinding stupidity, and he wants to slit his wrists. For the first ten minutes of lunch, he shakes his head angrily at everything I say. Then eventually he snaps out of it.

I stare at his forearms. I can make out a naked woman with a snake going up her vagina. She’s holding a knife, slitting her own throat. There are three playing cards on the back of his right hand: the Queen of Spades, the Jack of Hearts and the Joker. Red flames lick his elbow. There’s a watch tattooed on his left wrist with ‘Fuck Time’ inscribed on its face. Fuck o’clock. He’s not that tall, but his body is carefully cut. The lines of his face, his cheekbones and jaw, are sharp and precise. I can see the tufts of his blond underarm hairs and under them the ladder of his ribs. He’s beautiful, in the way that a knife is beautiful.

I once heard a writer say, 'It's easy to write a novel, you just slit your wrist and let it bleed on the pages.' She was right...Sophocles and Freud believed that we are defined by our fears. There's a lot of truth to that. When you share your greatest fears, your vulnerability, we bond in that honesty. We connect with each other and we don't feel so alone. And that's what books are really about. Connecting.

If only I had jumped from a building instead of slitting my wrists or drank sulfurid acid instead of taking sleeping pills! Yeah, you were the only reason I didn't pick better ways to kill myself, Aunt Monica. It's the thought that there actually is somebody who'd miss me and grieve for me... that makes my heart ache - Juri Motou

I think when you hate yourself badly enough to slit your wrists, you can’t haul yourself out of the hole. You have to be pulled out.

These dogs didn't bother to bond with us, but stuck out their paws, not to shake hands but so we could slit their wrists and get it the hell over with. (p.51)

Apartments in Crosscut weren't just depressing. They were wrist-slittingly bleak, and not quite as cheap as Madeline had imagined.

Is it possible to be jealous of God? Because when His name leaves her lips, I want to slit my wrists and fly up to his kingdom, just to burn it to the ground.

And possibility was my fuel. It was the One Thing that prevented me from slitting my wrists on any given horrid day. The fact that at any moment, everything could change.

I think when you hate yourself badly enough to slit your wrists, you can’t haul yourself out of the hole. You have to be pulled out.” She offered a bare smile. “Keep pulling, sweetheart. We can always use an extra set of hands.”   ~*~

Like, did anyone else notice that you can follow all of the good Christian rules and still be a huge dick about it? Seriously. I can say things right to your face that’ll make you want to slit your wrists, and I can do it with church-approved language, dripping with sweetness and an air of concern. I can lead you to believe God hates your guts and I can make you wish you were never born while I claim to “speak the truth in love,” promising that I only want what’s best for you.

Steaming, Sebastian flies up out of his seat and makes a dramatic exit out the front door. "Is he always so crazy?" I asked. "Yeah. But he's a hot fuck. You'll see." "No thanks... I'll pass. That kid's severely psychotic." "He's just a jealous mess." "Why did you marry him?" "We're not married. We're in an open relationship." "Thank God. I was seriously worried." "YEAH. Well I better go find him- before he slits his wrists." "GOOD IDEA. Better take some duct tape-- just in case you're too late.

Where did she touch me?” he repeated, punctuating every word as he held out his arms. “I was distracted. Show me exactly where.” Her eyes turned to slits. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Rennick.” “I’m not laughing, love.” Annoyance pulled at her mouth. “Your right arm.” “Where on my right arm?” She stared for a moment and touched his upper arm lightly. “Here.” Leaning down, he removed a dagger from his boot, held it against his skin, and sliced downward, flicking his wrist outward to remove a thin layer of skin.

It would have been helpful if there was a Mayo Clinic chapter about the topic of "leaving." Man, I would have read that chapter over and over -- leaving your wailing baby in the morning without wanting to slit your wrists; leaving your desk even though you are only a half hour away from completing something that would feel so good to wrap up; leaving the building so no one notices that you are actually leaving. I was much more interested in honing that skill than learning how to puree apples and carrots to freeze in ice-cube trays (not that I ever did that either). As long as I was a full-time working mother with a clock to punch or a train to catch -- as I would be for eight more years -- I never figured out how to leave with grace or with so-called conviction.

I know Dad killed himself because of me. Mom thinks that his recent jail stint tipped him over the edge, that his many chemical imbalances caught up with him. Now I keep searching for happiness so I don’t end up like he did. I learn about this town called Happy in Texas and think about how that must be the greatest place to live. I teach myself how to say and read and write happy in Spanish, German, Italian, and even Japanese but I would have to draw that last one out. I discover the happiest animal in the world, the quokka. He’s a cheeky little bastard that’s always smiling. But it’s not enough. The memories are still rattling around my head, twisting into me like a knife. I don’t want to wait around to see what comes next for me in this tragic story I’m living. I open up one of my father’s unused razors and cut into my wrist like he did, slit in a curve until it smiles so everyone will know I died for happiness. I was expecting relief but instead it’s the saddest pain I’ve ever experienced. I never once stop feeling empty or unworthy of anyone’s rescue, not even when the thin line on my wrist makes everything go red. I

As I speak, his fingers trail down my arm. I’m just so relieved he’s willing to touch me after I’ve told him this. He turns my hand over and traces the fine lines on my palm. “And?” He looks up beneath heavy lids. “What else should I know about you?” “My skin—” I stop, swallow. He leans down, presses his lips to my wrist in a feathery kiss. “What about your skin?” “You know. You’ve seen it,” I rasp. “It changes. The color becomes—” “Like fire.” His gaze lifts from my wrist and he says that word he said so long ago surrounded in cold mists, tucked on a ledge above a whispering pool of water. “Beautiful.” “You said that before. In the mountains.” “I meant it. Still do.” I laugh weakly. “I guess this means you’re not mad at me.” “I would be mad, if I could.” He frowns. “I should be.” He inches closer to me on the couch. We sink deeper into the tired cushions. “This is impossible.” “This what?” I clutch the collar of his shirt in my fingers. His face is so close I study the varying color of his eyes. For a long time, he says nothing. Stares at me in that way that makes me want to squirm. For a moment, it seems that his irises glow and the pupils shrink to slits. Then, he mutters, “A hunter in love with his prey.” My chest squeezes. I suck in a breath. Pretty wonderful, I think, but am too embarrassed to say it. Even after what he just admitted. He loves me? Studying him, I let myself consider this and whether he can possibly mean it. But what else could it be? What else could drive him to this moment with me? To turn his back on his family’s way of life? As he looks at me in that desperate, devouring way, I’m reminded of those moments in his car when he tended the cut on my palm and ran his hand over my leg. My belly twists. I glance around, see how seriously, dangerously alone we are. More alone than in the stairwell. Or even the first time together, on that ledge. I lick my lips. Now we’re alone with no school bell ready to rip us apart. Even more alarming, no more secrets stand between us. No barriers. Nothing to stop us at all. I hold my breath until I feel the first press of his lips, certain I’ve never been this close to another soul, this vulnerable. We kiss until we’re both breathless, warm and flushed, twisting against each other on the couch. His hands brush my bare back beneath my shirt, trace every bump of my spine. My back tingles, wings vibrating just beneath the surface. I drink the cooler air from his lips, drawing it into my fiery lungs. I don’t even mind when he stops and watches my skin change colors, or touches my face as it blurs in and out. He kisses my changing face. Cheeks, nose, the corners of my eyes, sighing my name it like a benediction between each caress. His lips slide to my neck and I moan, arch, lost to everything but him. In this, with him . . . I’m as close to the sky as I’ve ever been.

Seven months later, June 18, 1941, as the first display of German bombing lit the Trachimbrod skies electric, as my grandfather had his first orgasm (his first and only pleasure, of which she was not the cause), she slit her wrist with a knife that had been made dull carving love letters.

I get home thirty minutes later, still holding my balled-up shirt to my nose to soak up the little blood coming down. I came in through the garage so I wouldn’t have to pass any of my friends all fucked up like this. I limp straight to the bathroom and the door is cracked open, lights on inside. Eric’s supposed to be working at GameStop, and Mom’s visiting one of her patients in prison. I open the door and when I see who’s sitting in the bathtub, I drop the shirt and blood just spills down my face and chest. Holy shit. Dad. His eyes are open but he’s not looking at me. He didn’t take his clothes off before getting into the tub. The water is a deep red, stained by the blood spilling from his slit wrists. He came home to kill himself. He came home to kill himself before I could bring a boy here. He came home to kill himself because of me. All this blood. All this red makes me black out. My

I want downers, that much I know," I said frankly. "And I want something that'll put a damper on my need for company.I'm at the end of my rope," I said. "I'm an orphan, on top of it all. I probably have PTSD. My mother killed herself." "How?" Dr. Tuttle asked. "Slit her wrists," I lied. "Good to know.

Emo developed out of the punk scene, and they generally wear black. There is, however, a great deal of angst in their music, with dramatic vocals leaving audiences at live gigs sobbing or screaming. There’s a lot of self-loathing and despair in this culture - hence the self-harm slitting of the wrists, although it's more like little kitten scratches - but to be honest a bigger bunch of dickheads you couldn’t hope to find. Can you imagine walking out of a gig by ‘Forever the Sickest Kids,’ or ‘City of Caterpillar’ or ‘….. And you will Know us by the Trail of Dead’ balling your eyes out? I mean ….. Really!!

Cecilia, the youngest, only thirteen, had gone first, slitting her wrists like a Stoic while taking a bath, and when they found her, afloat in her pink pool, with the yellow eyes of someone possessed and her small body giving off the odor of a mature woman, the paramedics had been so frightened by her tranquillity that they had stood mesmerized.

You were never to say you weren't "fine, thank you — and yourself?" You were supposed to be Heidi. You were supposed to lug goat milk up the hills and not think twice. Heidi did not complain. Heidi did not do things like stand in front of the new IBM photocopier saying, "If this fucking Xerox machine breaks on me one more time, I'm going to slit my wrists.

You know what the sun looks like?" Kaye asked. There was only a little more than a slice of red where the sea met the sky. "No, what?" Janet said, holding the lipgloss out to Kaye. "Like he slit his wrists in a bathtub and the blood is all over the water." "That's gross, Kaye." "And the moon is just watching. She's just watching him die. She must have driven him to it.

His eyes are so heavy-lidded I can only see a slit of silver gleaming down at me. Then he licks his lips, and a thrill shoots up my spine. I know that look. I love that look. Wes shoves his trousers down. His thick erection slaps my abs. “I want to touch you,” I beg. “No.” His tone is commanding. It only intensifies the thrill. “Gotta hold you down so you don’t go running off again.” He gives me another lingering kiss just to drive the point home. And when he finally releases my wrists, he’s off the bed before I can reach for him. “Don’t move,” he whispers, and I go still, watching in near fascination as he charges across the room to where he dropped his wallet. He opens it, extracts one of his handy packets of travel lube, and returns to the bed. “Arms over your head.

The couple in the Skyline came to mind. Why did I have this fixation on them? Well, what else did I have to think about? By now, the two of them might be snoozing away in bed, or maybe pushing into commuter trains. They could be flat character sketches for a TV treatment: Japanese woman marries Frenchman while studying abroad; husband has traffic accident and becomes paraplegic. Woman tires of life in Paris, leaves husband, and returns to Tokyo, where she works in Belgian or Swiss embassy. Silver bracelets, a memento from her husband. Cut to beach scene in Nice: woman with the bracelets on left wrist. Woman takes bath, makes love, silver bracelets always on left wrist. Cut: enter Japanese man, veteran of student occupation of Yasuda Hall, wearing tinted glasses like lead in Ashes and Diamonds. A top TV director, he is haunted by dreams of tear gas, by memories of his wife who slit her wrist five years earlier. Cut (for what it's worth, this script has a lot of jump cuts): he sees the bracelets on woman's left wrist, flashes back to wife's bloodied wrist. So he asks woman: could she switch bracelets to her right wrist? "I refuse," she says. "I wear my bracelets on my left wrist.

I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which was matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.

HE LIES ON HIS BACK. I run a finger along the fence of dark hair that partitions his torso from navel to chest. “I like your body,” I tell him. He sighs and smiles. “Don’t,” he says; and then, with my hand idling in the shallows of his neck, he catalogues his every flaw: the dry skin that makes terrazzo of his back; the single mole between his shoulder blades, like an Eskimo marooned on an expanse of flaggy ice; his warped thumbnail; his knobbed wrists; the tiny white scar that hyphenates his nostrils. I finger the wound. My pinkie dips into his nose; he snorts. “How did it happen?” I ask. He twists my hair around his thumb. “My cousin.” “I didn’t know you had a cousin.” “Two. This was my cousin Robin. He held a razor against my nose and said he’d slit my nostrils so that I only had one. And when I shook my head no, the blade sliced me.” “God.” He exhales. “I know. If I’d only nodded okay, it would’ve been fine.” I smile. “How old were you?” “Oh, this was last Tuesday.

It was a hideous ancient thing that stood on tiger feet in the middle of the floor. Like a showpiece. And he did enjoy showing it. He would bring his friends upstairs to the master bathroom so that they could admire the monstrosity while he told them the whole long boring story of how he’d gotten it at an estate sale in Hollywood. Some bimbo actress from the silent-screen days had supposedly slit her wrists while she was in the thing. ‘Cashed in her chips,’ Harold liked to say. ‘In this very tub.

Hiya, Alex. I missed you tonight." My gaze rests on Sam. "Yeah, I see how much you missed me." "Sam? Oh, I don't really like him," she coos, coming close. I can smell the mota radiating off her. "I'm waiting for you to come back to me." "Not gonna happen." "Is it because of your stupid chemistry partner?" She grabs ray chin, trying to force me to look at her, her long nails digging into my skin. I grab both her wrists and pull them aside, all the time wondering how my tough-as-nails ex-girlfriend turned into a tough-as-nails bitch. "Brittany has nothin' to do with you and me. I hear you've been talkin' shit to her." "Did Isa tell you that?" she asks, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Just back off," I say, ignoring her question, "or you'll have a lot more to deal with than a bitter ex-boyfriend." "Are you bitter, Alex? Because you don't act bitter. You act like you don't give a shit." She's right. After I found her sleeping around, it took me a while to get over it, get over her. I wondered what other guys were giving her that I couldn't. "I used to give a shit," I tell her. "I don't now.

She was confusing me. This was my tragedy. Why were we talking about her? “I’d get there and people would stare at me,” I said. “Look at me!” “Look at me!” she shot back. She pointed accusingly at herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair looked wilty. Her bottom lip sagged. “I’m thirty-eight years old and still living with my mother. I’ve wanted to get away from that woman all my life. And here it is, ten-thirty at night. I’m tired, Dolores. I just want to go to bed. But instead, I’m on my way to work, dressed up like . . . one of the goddamned Andrews sisters.” In the mirror, we shared a smile. I wanted to reach over and rub her back, tell her I loved her. I opened my mouth to say it, but something else came out. “What if I get so depressed down there that I slit my wrists? They could call here and say they found me in a pool of blood.” “Oh for Christ’s sweet sake!” Her hairbrush flew past me and hit the wall. She slammed into the bathroom, banging the medicine-cabinet door once, twice, three times. Tap water ran for several minutes. When she came back, her eyes were red. She bent over and picked up the brush, picked strands of hair from the bristles. “You don’t want to go to college? Don’t go. I can’t keep this up. I thought I could, but I can’t.” “I’ll get a job,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go on a diet. I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry, I’m sorry, everybody’s sorry,” she sighed. “Write that girl a letter. Don’t let her get stuck with those bedspreads.” I stopped her as she headed for the stairs. “Ma?” I said. She turned and faced me and I saw, in her eyes, the dazed woman she’d been those first days when she’d returned from the mental hospital years before. “Goddamnit, Dolores,” she said. “You’ve made me so goddamned tired.” Then she was down the stairs and out the door.

if they label you soft, feather weight and white-livered, if the locker room tosses back its sweaty head, and laughs at how quiet your hands stay, if they come to trample the dandelions roaring in your throat, you tell them that you were forged inside of a woman who had to survive fifteen different species of disaster to bring you here, and you didn’t come to piss on trees. you ain’t nobody’s thick-necked pitbull boy, don’t need to prove yourself worthy of this inheritance of street-corner logic, this blood legend, this index of catcalls, “three hundred ways to turn a woman into a three course meal”, this legacy of shame, and man, and pillage, and man, and rape, and man. you boy. you won’t be some girl’s slit wrists dazzling the bathtub, won’t be some girl’s, “i didn’t ask for it but he gave it to me anyway”, the torn skirt panting behind the bedroom door, some father’s excuse to polish his gun. if they say, “take what you want”, you tell them you already have everything you need; you come from scabbed knuckles and women who never stopped swinging, you come men who drank away their life savings, and men who raised daughters alone. you come from love you gotta put your back into, elbow-grease loving like slow-dancing on dirty linoleum, you come from that house of worship. boy, i dare you to hold something like that. love whatever feels most like your grandmother’s cooking. love whatever music looks best on your feet. whatever woman beckons your blood to the boiling point, you treat her like she is the god of your pulse, you treat her like you would want your father to treat me: i dare you to be that much man one day. that you would give up your seat on the train to the invisible women, juggling babies and groceries. that you would hold doors, and say thank-you, and understand that women know they are beautiful without you having to yell it at them from across the street. the day i hear you call a woman a “bitch” is the day i dig my own grave. see how you feel writing that eulogy. and if you are ever left with your love’s skin trembling under your nails, if there is ever a powder-blue heart left for dead on your doorstep, and too many places in this city that remind you of her tears, be gentle when you drape the remains of your lives in burial cloth. don’t think yourself mighty enough to turn her into a poem, or a song, or some other sweetness to soften the blow, boy, i dare you to break like that. you look too much like your mother not t

I do not have reason to smile very often.” Ky’s fingers begin tracking down the back of my hand. “Then you make a reason, Li. Don’t make excuses for living a shit life. It ain’t rocket science. You don’t like something, find something you do. Don’t like being around someone, stay the fuck away. Wanna change your life, then get off your ass, bitch and fuckin’ change it.” … “Fuck, I don’t ever get down, love my damn life, but looking at you through that window every night, as miserable as shit and glaring at us like we’re demons, even makes me wanna slit my wrists. And I’ll tell you now, I’m too fuckin’ pretty to die.

People tend to look unfavorably upon the mentally ill, especially those of us who’ve been hospitalized. Losing your mind is indeed traumatizing, but doing so in front of a supposedly sane audience is mortifying. It’s not like getting cancer. No one rallies around you or shaves her head in solidarity or brings you sweets. “Normals” (or “normies,” as some of us “crazies” affectionately refer to them) feel uneasy around those of us who’ve lost a grip on reality. Perhaps they’re afraid we might attack them or drool on them or, worse yet, suck them into our alternate universe where slitting your wrists and talking to phantoms seem perfectly rational.

The source of Xi’s power over his own ranks remains intimidation. And that is certainly effective in the short term: during his first term in office, Party functionaries all over the country were paralyzed with fear of the dreaded Central Commission for Discipline Inspection—one of the country’s most secretive and powerful organizations—and the suicide rate among CCP workers doubled. Between 2009 and 2016, according to a study by the Institute of Psychology at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, 243 Party officials took their own lives (140 jumped to their deaths, 44 hanged themselves, 26 took poison, 12 drowned themselves, and 6 slit their wrists).21 These figures are likely to fall short of the true number.

Let’s get some sleep,” he whispered. “Before dawn we’ll see what we can gather up.” His eyes rested on her forehead, on the new bruises and gashes from the Juggernaut blast. “You look awful,” he said. Camille narrowed her eyes to slits. She grabbed the lamp from his hands. “Thank you very much.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, following her as she climbed the narrow stairwell. “You look just as whipped,” she said over her shoulder. Camille already felt like a load of dung-her head throbbed, her limbs ached, and the rope marks around her wrists burned. She didn’t need to be told she looked dreadful, too. “The bruises, Camille. Your injuries look awful, not you,” he said. She walked down the hallway in self-conscious silence.

So perhaps there is no such thing as a good death. Does it really make any difference if you are forced to slit your wrists or if you die on the battlefield? Is Vespasian’s death – managing a final joke on becoming a god – somehow better than Nero’s? Nero had to commit suicide when it became clear that rebellion had forced him from the throne. He eventually drove a dagger through his throat – with the help of his secretary, Epaphroditus – after wailing repeatedly, ‘qualis artifex pereo’ – ‘Such an artist! But still I die!’ Surely none of us wants to die by being stabbed through the neck by someone who usually does our filing. Yet Vespasian is just as dead as Nero, in the end. The only difference is that he gets a better write-up, which is all any of us can really hope for.

His massive hand gripped the closet doorknob, dagger now angled at his side. “Come out, little Crochan,” he crooned. Silent as death, Manon slid up behind him. The fool didn’t even know she was there until she brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Wrong kind of witch.” The man whirled, slamming into the closet door. He raised the dagger between them, his chest heaving. Manon merely smiled, her silver-white hair glinting in the moonlight. He noticed the shut door then, drawing in breath to shout. But Manon smiled broader, and a row of dagger-sharp iron teeth pushed from the slits high in her gums, snapping down like armor. The man started, hitting the door behind him again, eyes so wide that white shone all around them. His dagger clattered on the floorboards. And then, just to really make him soil his pants, she flicked her wrists in the air between them. The iron claws shot over her nails in a stinging, gleaming flash.

How?” Dr. Tuttle asked. “Slit her wrists,” I lied. “Good to know.” Her hair was red and frizzy. The foam brace she wore around her neck had what looked like coffee and food stains on it, and it squished the skin on her neck up toward her chin. Her face was like a bloodhound’s, folded and drooping, her sunken eyes hidden under very small wire-framed glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. I never got a good look at Dr. Tuttle’s eyes. I suspect that they were crazy eyes, black and shiny, like a crow’s. The pen she used was long and purple and had a purple feather at the end of it. “Both my parents died when I was in college,” I went on. “Just a few years ago.” She seemed to study me for a moment, her expression blank and breathless. Then she turned back to her little prescription pad. “I’m very good with insurance companies,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know how to play into their little games. Are you sleeping at all?” “Barely,” I said. “Any dreams?” “Only nightmares.” “I figured. Sleep is key. Most people need upwards of fourteen hours or so. The modern age has forced us to live unnatural lives. Busy, busy, busy. Go, go, go. You probably work too much.” She scribbled for a while on her pad. “Mirth,” Dr. Tuttle said. “I like it better than joy. Happiness isn’t a word I like to use in here. It’s very arresting, happiness. You should know that I’m someone who appreciates the subtleties of human experience. Being well rested is a precondition, of course. Do you know what mirth means? M-I-R-T-H?” “Yeah. Like The House of Mirth,” I said. “A sad story,” said Dr. Tuttle. “I haven’t read it.” “Better you don’t.

Power is about balance, remember?” He stepped back, his face paling, black eyes narrowing to slits. “I did not ask for your wisdom, false sadhvi. You do not know me.” My heart was breaking. I thought I knew, finally, what it meant to be a ghost. It meant speaking your words around a mouth full of loss. It meant grasping into echoes and hoping, praying that the words still meant something. “I know your soul,” I said, my voice cracking. “Everything else is an ornament.” “You have a strange effect on me…why is that?” he asked softly. “Beside you, I am reminded of something I have forgotten.” My hands fell to my sides. There, beneath the rags of my robes, the fabric was raised and bumpy and I knew what lay beneath it--a broken circlet of hair. I fished it out of the pocket. My whole body was trembling, shaking against its restraints of bone. Amar reached out to cup the back of my neck. I shuddered. I had forgotten how cold his hands were, like the soul of winter had tangled itself in his fingers. He stared at me and his gaze had all the finality of death--it was ferocious and terrible, a ravel of locked horns. He was searching me. I knew exactly what he was looking for-- Himself. I twined the bracelet together, letting it hover mere inches from his skin. I had no expectation, no method, no strategy. I was blind and clinging to a bruised piece of hope. But it was all I had. “You once said your soul could never forget mine,” I said, sliding the mended bracelet around his wrist. “Do you remember now?” He inhaled sharply, like something had rent through him. Around his wrist, the bracelet glowed like a caught star. “Jaani,” he breathed, staring at me.

When the bullhorn signaled that he'd met the qualifying time,he struggled to gather his wits,waiting until Devil was right alongside the gate before he freed his hand,cutting himself loose. He flew through the air and over the corral fence,landing in the dirt at Marilee Trainor's feet. "My God! Don't move." She was beside him in the blink of an eye,kneeling in the dirt,probing for broken bones. Wyatt lay perfectly still,enjoying the feel of those clever, practiced hands moving over him.When she moved from his legs to his torso and arms,he opened his eyes to narrow slits and watched her from beneath lowered lids. She was the perfect combination of beauty and brains.He could see the wheels turning as she did a thorough exam.Even her brow,furrowed in concentration,couldn't mar that flawless complexion. Her eyes, the color of the palest milk chocolate, were narrowed in thought.Strands of red hair dipped over one cheek, giving her a sultry look. Satisfied that nothing was broken, she sat back on her heels,feeling a moment of giddy relief. That was when she realized that he was staring. She waved a hand before his eyes. "How many fingers can you see?" "Four fingers and a thumb. Or should I say four beautiful,long,slender fingers and one perfect thumb,connected to one perfect arm of one perfectly gorgeous female? And,I'm happy to add,there's no ring on the third finger of that hand." She caught the smug little grin on his lips. Her tone hardened. "I get it. A showboat.I should have known.I don't have time to waste on some silver-tongued actor." "Why,thank you.I had no idea you'd examined my tongue.Mind if I examine yours?" She started to stand,but his hand shot out,catching her by the wrist. "Sorry.That was really cheesy, but I couldn't resist teasing you." His tone altered,deepened,just enough to have her glancing over to see if he was still teasing. He met her look. "Are you always this serious?" Despite his apology,she wasn't about to let him off the hook,or change her mind about him.

Kristen- So you know I ran… and he got me. He had his belt in hand ready to whip me, and he did repeatedly until I fell to the ground, with him straddling me, his hand touching me, he started pinching me, and that is when he pierced my nipple with an old rusty nail. ‘Honey hush,’ he said as I screamed, even more, the second time; because I knew the pain was picking and nearing. He laughed- ‘Saying now everything matches!’ I recall him saying this- as he pulled me up dragging me by the hair. ‘Good now your bare ass can rub up on the bark of the tree, and then I can smack it later on tonight. You would like that? Wouldn’t you? My little bitch!’ Kristen- I had to say- ‘Yes, Yes- I would!’ I screamed louder than I have ever had in my entire life! For the reason that I knew what was coming! I could see him coming with the cruel tools in hand! I was thinking to myself. ‘Please God don’t let him have a screwdriver.’’ Because knew what he would do with it, and where it would be shoved in! Just for the hell of it, he drew a target on my tummy with my lipstick and started throwing tools like wrenches, trying to hit the same spot. I thought for sure something of his was going to go deep inside me. He looked at me, flashing scissors, and said in a sick way. ‘Look, baby, these are the same scissors your momma used to slit her wrist. He slapped them in my hand, and said it is your choice; you can do the same thing she had the choice of... What do you say? You know these are the very same scissors, that gave your mother the episiotomy that brought you into this world. Now they can be the same scissors to take you out.’ Gasping for breath in being so appalled, I remember saying- ‘What did I do to you?’ He said- ‘It is not what you did to me, it is what they want, and what I was asked to do, and what they will do to me if I don’t!’ I said- ‘Who are they?’ He whispered in my ear, as well as he bit it- my earlobe with his teeth afterward saying. - ‘You are that stupid? I knew it! Will If I tell you, I will have to kill you.’ He said- (In a very paranoid, yet almost cocky tone of voice.) So, I yelled back- ‘Just do it- you- vain shit-face!’ That is when he did it, one by one. Yes, one toe by toe, all the nails went in and through my fingernails and flesh. This happened to my hand, palm, and wrists one nail at a time. (Bang! Bang! Bang!) Until the point that I was able to suspend from them alone on the tree. The same tree that he carved our names into, saying forever and ever. I have to say at that point I did not want to live, saying get me down! Then he yelled- ‘Not yet- my baby!

I slipped in and out of worlds that weren’t there. I wrote letters to fictitious characters. I was passing into catatonic states more times than not. It required a concerted amount of effort to keep myself here in this world. I was a runaway. I tried to slit my wrists. I was clinical, and I knew how to hide my condition.

I wanted to kill myself. I would have done it, too, if I had owned a gun. I was considering the gruesome alternatives — pills, slitting my wrists with a razor blade, jumping off a bridge — when another student called to ask me a detailed question on relativity. There was no way, after fifteen minutes of thinking about Mr. Einstein, that suicide was still a viable option. Divorce, certainly. Celibacy, highly likely. But death was out of the question. I could never have prematurely terminated my love affair with physics.

She sounded just like my mother, and I knew that if I didn't interrupt, the lecture would escalate until I wanted to slit my wrists just to give her something to mop so she would. Stop. Talking.

There were two knives. One you had stuck through the painting, and the other was slitting your wrist. Remember that? Remember how I found you in your mother’s house? That was what you were before I saved you. I saved you. If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead. You wouldn’t even be with Aiden right now.”  

Six dark ways to reach the abyss. Five knuckles to complete the fist. Four years’ time to slit the wrist. Powers and troubles come in threes. Two twin souls miss the forest for the trees. One dark day to be tainted and free.” After the

Dick delves in subsequent letters into the possible Jungian meaning of all this, the significance of ancient Rome in his mystical experiences, and the sibyl as representing his “anima,” the inner source of his own prophetic capacity. Recall here Morgan Robertson’s belief that his own muse was likewise a feminine spirit of some sort. We can observe Dick here beginning to weave these dream images into his evolving self-mythology and what became a major metaphysical strand in his Exegesis, as well as the novel VALIS that was based on his experiences. In his search for a meaning behind all these coincidences—an answer to the question “why me?”—Dick understandably gropes in many different directions for an explanation and attaches great, mostly Jungian significance to the symbols. Yet he does not go down the path of thinking he is simply accessing archetypes in the collective unconscious. Rather, he is drawn to the conclusion that somehow the ancient world is still present, only camouflaged—or indeed, that we are still in it. It all seems to confirm a dream remembered from his youth that was much like the “B___ Grove” dreams, in which he had searched for a story in Astounding Stories called “The Empire Never Ended.” That story, he had felt certain, contained all the mysteries of existence. As a result of some of his visions and experiences in 1974, Dick came to believe he was possibly a reincarnated Christian from ancient Rome.38 We are rewarded best by bracketing the various interpretations, the Exegesis per se, and looking at Dick’s project as a making of something, a creation of meaningful narratives to be read by other people, a reaching out. The term “cry for help” may sound a bit extreme, but it is not. It was during this black period of his life, most specifically in February 1976, when Tessa left him and took their son, that he attempted suicide via drug overdose, slitting his wrists, and carbon monoxide poisoning in his garage, all at the same time. Fortunately, all three plans failed. Setting aside the metaphysics and cosmology, what was Dick trying to say in his writing during this period—to Claudia, to Tessa, to his readers, and to posterity? And what whispered message was he straining to hear from his own precognitive unconscious? Arguably, he wanted to hear the same thing Morgan Robertson managed to hear, loud and clear, when news of the Titanic’s fatal collision with an iceberg splashed across the front page of The New York Times on April 15, 1912. Both in his Exegesis and in his private correspondence with friends like Claudia, Dick flickered between two basic stances on his experience: the secret persistence of the ancient world underneath the veneer of mid-1970s Orange County, and the idea that he was haunting himself from his own future. These are not incompatible ideas in the sense that they both point to our old friend Mister Block Universe, where the past still exists and the future already exists—and by implication, nothing is subject to alteration.

What did she do?” Stryker asked. “She went home and slit her wrists.” “How do you know she saw the billboard?” Stryker asked. “She called and left a voice mail for her sister before she did it,” Agent Bishop said. “She said she had seen the billboard, she knew her husband was the Traveling Salesman, and to tell the police to search his hunting cabin, which of course turned up all the trophies he had collected from his victims.” “Holloway didn’t make any attempts to give up her husband as a killer, though,” Connor pointed out. “No, but it is interesting to note that your department leaked the detail about the bite marks only a few days before Holloway went into the river.

I am so caught up in the idea that nobody would actually try to save me if I were to slit my wrists or hang myself from one of the rafters in the bunk. I can't believe anyone might care enough to try to keep me alive.

She'd slit her wrists and bled out in the bathtub." I refused to close my eyes because the image, that horrific image lurked there like a monster, ready to drag me back into the darkness. Sometimes days, even weeks, would pass, and I would go about my life and not think about it. But the cold feeling never fully abandoned me.

I hope she slits her wrists on a Justin Bieber CD and bleeds out all over her DJ booth while a line of grade school children walk up to her and one by one spit on her hideous face.

I was bored stiff while reading this. I got so bored I wanted to slit my wrists to see how my flatmate would react.

Jackson shrugged off Gentry’s hand. “You want to worry about drugs in your parish, Agent Broussard, why don’t you check my sister’s bag? Or is it okay for your agents to be racing around with guns while they’re buzzing on painkillers? Is it okay for her to work four months after she tried to slit her wrists with a f**king utility knife?” A chill washed across Jena’s shoulders. Who was this person? The brother she’d known her whole life would never try to throw her under the squad car. “We aren’t talking about your sister, who, by the way, is a skilled law-enforcement agent who took two bullets in the line of duty a few months ago, son.” Gentry’s voice was low, but serious. “We’re talking about you, an unemployed twenty four year old who had almost an ounce of an illegal synthetic drug stashed in his bedroom, not to mention what’s probably still in your system. All we’d need is one simple blood test.” Gentry paused. “We’re talking about jail time, Jackson. Do you understand what kind of trouble you could be in?” Time seemed to stretch into slow motion. Jackson turned like an enraged devil, tightened his fingers around Gentry’s throat, and squeezed. He moved so fast that Gentry wasn’t able to get his hands up to protect himself and was left trying to breathe and pry Jacks’s hands off at the same time. Jackson wasn’t nearly as strong as Gentry, so it had to be the drugs. Jena had heard stories of users having almost superhuman strength. She ran toward them, but Adam got there first. He kicked Jacks’s legs out from beneath him and, by the time her brother hit the floor, Meizel was kneeling on his back, one hand pressing his head against the tile. The handcuffs clicked shut with a loud scrape of metal, and Meizel jerked Jacks to his feet. It was over in a matter of seconds. All four of them stood still for a moment. Until Jacks, his chin bleeding from hitting the floor, began spewing more accusations at Jena, laced with a liberal dose of f-bombs. Then life sped up again. Meizel held one of Jacks’s arms while Gentry held the other. The deputy had started his Miranda by the time they’d gotten Jacks out the front door, shoving him toward the patrol car none too gently.

The bathtub is on fire. Flames sit atop bloody water, licking upwards and scorching the ceiling. The fire keeps burning, regardless of cause or fuel. A large silver knife, stolen from her mother’s kitchen, sits on the floor beside the tub. Blood coats the blade and handle, pooling on the tile and running into the grout. The last she remembers, she had been slitting her wrists. She was tired of the dreams of fire and blood. Tired of feeling like she didn’t belong. She’d run the water and sat in the tub. She’d drawn the blade across her skin, feeling the odd invasive pain as it cut. She’d welcomed it.

As I was walking home, I had this gnawing feeling in my gut that something was wrong. I ran and ran and ran to get home as quickly as I could.”  I pause, trying to gather whatever strength I can for this next part. The deep breath that I take racks my lungs, like that of a child who has sobbed itself to sleep.  “He was in the tub, wrists slit, blood everywhere. I was too late. There was nothing I could do. He killed himself because of me and my fucking mistake. He left a note, but all it said was that he was sorry that he couldn’t be who they wanted him to be. I killed him. It’s all my fault that my brother is dead.” The tears claim me full force now.

The thing is, I don’t have the strength to end my life. I have no desire to slit my wrists or OD on pills. I’m too tired. Too lazy. If I could just fade into nonexistence, that’d be perfect.

Giles’ head is full of blood. In capillaries it chugs busily up and down the hills and valleys of his brain. In his imagination it streams down from the sky and moves in the water. He scratches a scab on his wrist and flakes off layer after layer of skin until the blood pours out. Pieces of metal whine out of the blue sky towards him and smash into his body, scooping out his intestines. His bowels trail along the deck. Yellow globules of shit, their journey through the colon interrupted, huddle together inside the slit open pipes. The eyes of his friends are continually attacked. They appear and disappear. Each part of the ship is a weapon. The clews of his hammock can strangle, the guard rails buckle and toss him overboard; the lifeboats fall and crush him. … Giles, looking up, feels the shafts of his eyes penetrate deep, deep, past the light and into the blackness of space. The sky is the palest, palest blue … Death stalks them. … The horrors of his imagination are real. This is war. This is the purpose of war. To give shape to the menacing blackness of space behind the blue sky, the silver death in the water, the streams of blood behind the smooth forehead. This pale forehead, grey brown hair crusted with salt, frizzing more than ever in the fresh, damp air, these straight eyebrows, delicate veil of lids, jumping eyeballs, hide many patterns and possibilities of death. Those he has been trained for. Those he has seen, heard or imagined. Those he fears. Death lurking in the pure blue sky is not new to him and now he can put a name to it. … Sometimes they happen to other people and you are still alive. Sometimes you make them happen to your enemy and you are still alive. Sometimes they happen to you and you are dead. Or you are still alive, having lost a lump of flesh, a yard of skin, a pint of blood. Picking over what is left a doctor can make something of it. A catalogue at least. If you can know or name what is left, nothing so dreadful has been lost.

It was also the room he’d found her in, her wrists slit open as red pooled around her, her canvas fallen to the side on the floor, soaking in her blood, her last masterpiece.

Vane stands up, grabs me by the throat and rips me off of Pan. Pan growls his frustration. “Why did you disregard my order?” Vane’s shadow rumbles in the back of his throat. I wrap my hand around his wrist trying to get some leverage on him. I’m on my tiptoes and completely naked. I don’t have much to play with here. When Vane’s dark eyes land on me, I tense up, ready for the terror, the unease, the nausea rolling in my gut. But there is none. And Vane’s gaze narrows to slits. “Are you bleeding?” he asks and looks me up and down.

The child’s mother, a quadroon, had succeeded in compelling miscarriage four times, but before the fifth, her owner had said that any living new issue would be freed. The owner’s true intentions toward the quadroon were unclear, for he died. To satisfy the codicil of his will, the quadroon was mortgaged for a loan, and by the time the owner’s wife, a lady who was irritated with Negresses’ siren magic on decent white men, began preparation to sell the quadroon, the wife’s son had taken a shine to his father’s leftovers. Thus, the quadroon decided it was time to slit her wrists.

It would make me eligible for health insurance, which I’ll need after I slit my wrists.

In the twenty-first century, American democracy slit its wrists on Occam’s Razor, and no one answered for the blood.

I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.

It was Valentine’s Day in Sedona. I had never been much for the holiday. As a matter of fact, I maintained some pretty cynical views on it. I used to call it “National Singles’ Awareness Day,” or “You Might As Well Slit Your Wrist Now, Cause You’re Destined to Die Alone Day.

Your contagious enthusiasm makes me want to jump for joy. Or slit my wrists. It’s one of those.

After his first weeks of walking a beat with Aeron, Garry had wanted to slit his wrists. To him, it wouldn’t matter whose wrists got slit, so long as either he or Aeron wasn’t left standing at sunset.

There’s no justice in this world for good people. Only evil gets what it wants.” “That’s incredibly depressing.” “That’s why religion was created. Without an afterlife to hope for, most of us would give up and slit our wrists.

slitting my wrists in the bathtub

She says if she surrounded herself with work by mediocre artists all day she’d slit her wrist with frustration. What do you mean? I find it inspiring. When was the last time you saw a Latina artist in a gallery? I never thought about it like that.

Seven little crazy kids chopping up sticks; One burnt her daddy up and then there were six. Six little crazy kids playing with a hive; One tattooed himself to death and then there were five. Five little crazy kids on a cellar door; One went all schizo and then there were four. Four little crazy kids going out to sea; One wouldn’t say a word, and then there were three. Three little crazy kids walking to the zoo; One jerked himself too much and then there were two. Two little crazy kids sitting in the sun; One took a bunch of pills and then there was one. One little crazy kid left all alone; He went and slit his wrists, and then there were none.

Deep within the bowels of Imajinaereum, a Barbellite girl wept. Her warm tears slid across her face like tiny, slithering snakes. They drained and fell, infesting her already damp lap. The room around her was pitch black and so was her spirits: Black as coal. Serafina had never felt depression so profound. It was as if she couldn’t move, couldn’t eat. She could only sit in the dark and give birth to her colony of snakes. They bit her from the inside, infecting her with the poison of revenge. Joy long eclipsed, hate festered inside her like a sore that refused to heal. And this time she would let that cut decompose into something even more unsightly. Between sobs, Serafina reached for the razor beside her. The sharp blade was cold between her fingers. Deathly cold. Recent developments had catalyzed her pain and transformed it into something physical. Serafina contorted her torso as a marrow-deep ache threatened to lynch her. Soon, she would target the very source of her worries or die trying. The room seemed to darken as the thought blossomed inside her mind like a black flower. Then she reached for the bone-white scroll beside her. The parchment felt like the skin of a beast as she held it up before her face. Tonight she would set things in motion to murder her grandmother. In one quick jagged motion, Serafina slit her palm with the blade. She gasped at the sight of her blood flowing down her wrist. She felt only a prick. As her liberated blood dripped onto the parchment, she recited the words she had memorized years ago.

Honey, freedom is improper. Some would have us commit suicide for not having a thick enough hymen, in the name of propriety. Remember? They would have us slit our wrists, not enjoy a single sexual act. What is freedom to you? Bleached sheets in a foreign city? Please….

If only I had jumped from a building instead of slitting my wrists or drank sulfurid acid instead of taking sleeping pills! Yeah, you were the only reason I didn't pick better ways to kill myself, Aunt Monica. It's the thought that there actually is somebody who'd miss me and grieve for me... that makes my heart ache - Juri Motou

It was Friday and I wouldn't get to see him again for at least two days. I headed back to my office, probably the only one of the two hundred plus attorneys who worked there who wasn't thrilled that the weekend had finally arrived. I contemplated my plans for the next day. I could rearrange the kitchen cupboards, maybe catch a matinee, slit my wrists. The possibilities were endless.

When a million people decide to slit their wrists, how can the one person who refuses be wrong?

Sometimes, he didn’t want to be the fun one. Sometimes, he wanted to be the person who someone else looked at as if he were their forever. Her hand slid again, this time far too close to his cocks. He grabbed onto her wrist just as her fingers brushed against the slit between his scales. It took every single ounce of his power to keep his cocks where they were supposed to be. He would not scare her. Not after coming this far through her fear and disgust. “Sleep now, Ace.” “What did I just touch?” He glanced down to see her looking at her fingers. They were glistening with the natural lubrication that existed where his cocks were kept. Normally, no one would ever see the substance. It only existed so his cocks didn’t get irritated by the salt water. But to see it on her fingers? After this conversation? He’d never been more embarrassed in his life. Maketes let his head thud back against the wall and drew her hand up his chest, letting the movement wipe the fluid from her fingers. It would dry against his scales, a reminder that he shouldn’t let her touch whatever she wanted. “Sleep,” he repeated. “Time for talking is over.” As if he would get any sleep tonight.

Only days after his call with Devereux, Danny was found dead in a hotel room bathtub, having slit his wrists twelve times. His family was not notified for two days. When his brother Tony found out how Danny had died, he was immediately suspicious. Danny was famously squeamish when it came to blood and things like needles penetrating his skin. If Danny were to take his own life, Tony didn’t believe that he would do it in such a way. He also said Danny had told him about some of his findings and expressed fear that his life was in danger because of what he knew. Danny had told Tony that if he ended up dead, it would not have been by his own hand.