Trademark

      She sits there, on his bed, staring into the darkness. He hates the morning sunshine. She loves it. Really, it's the only thing that keeps her alive anymore. That faint trickle of light, the one that just manages to escape over the heavy black drapes and skirt across the ceiling.
      But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining piece of outside. He managed to cover the last fragment of sanctuary she had.
      She hasn't anything anymore. She knows she didn't have anything to begin with. But now it's just so much more pronounced -so much more real. She has friends. She has family. But they don't know what's been happening all these years. How can they? He's a master actor. He goes to school for English, but he should be going to school for Drama. He would do well in Drama. Or maybe she would. She's the one who has no sense of dramatics anymore. Everything just melts together. The differences between what is real and what isn't don't exist. Maybe she should take a Drama course next semester.
      He's in the shower now. She doesn't shower with him. She never has. Now she knows it's safer that she never did. It's easier to slip in the tub. The wet ceramics are dangerous. She could easily slip while he holds her close. She could easily smash her skull against the faucets, the side of the tub, and bleed to death. The tub would be slippery. A horrible accident. He would cry like a toddler. He really should go into the Drama department.
      The water's been running for ten minutes now. She won't be able to have her turn for another twenty minutes. Even then, she'll have to wait for him to shut off the hot water. He doesn't like wasting the hot water. It takes her five minutes in the shower. She rushes. She has no choice. If she does go longer than that, he's likely to explain why she shouldn't be wasting so much water. His house, his rules. Even though she's the one who pays the rent and the bills.
      She's got another twenty minutes. She always does the same thing while she waits for her turn in the cold shower.
      The razor blade in her hand is very small. She peels a new one off every morning that she wakes-up here. It's just the blade from those cheap little pink razors women use to shave their legs. They're sharp though. She's become a master at popping them out from the plastic casing. Her fingers don't even get cut anymore. Which is a good thing, less likely to have people ask why her fingers are cut, bleeding, and swollen. Less likely that he'll get defensive at their questions, and explain to her why people shouldn't have a need to ask such questions about their relationship.
      It's almost too dark in the bedroom to do this with much accuracy. But she's come to know where the older wounds lie. She's able to avoid them with the utmost precision -often with nothing more than the width of the blade's edge separating old blood from fresh.
      The small metal object is clenched between her thumb and index finger. Her pinkie sticks straight out, as though she's having tea with British Aristocrats. She runs her ring finger over her cold flesh. She doesn't feel any scars.
      The small point of the sharp blade presses into her skin. She can feel a tinge of pain -like being poked by a needle- at her side, just above her waistline. She very slowly drags her hand toward the front of her stomach. The sensation is astounding. Like dozens of tiny needles all poking into her body at a furious pace, forming a thin line of minute pain.
      She stops. Her hand remains motionless for a moment. She basks in the stinging pulse that streams over her entire body. She waits until the count of fourteen, and starts once more, a few centimetres below the initial gash.
      She does this four times. A five inch gash. It takes ten seconds to make. She counts to fourteen. She starts again. She makes four -almost identical- slashes over her skin.
      The pain she feels is wonderful. She feels the broken skin pulsing and demanding to be told what is happening, why this occurs again and again. Her body demands that this abuse stop, but her mind continues to beg for more.
      She releases a long and soft sigh, shutting her eyes. She waits a few minutes before wrapping the razor back into its piece of tissu paper, and tucking it into her shoe.
      Her fingers run over the first slash on her flesh. The blood is fresh. Small globules of deep red forming where the blade struck deeper. Thin red smears of her own blood paint themselves on her skin as her fingers run over the four cuts.
      The shower is still going strong. She can hear the water. He never notices the cuts. He just assumes its his own handy work. He smiles when he sees the bleeding parallel lines. Even if it's not his hands that physically create the wounds, it's still his trademark. It's his own personal graffiti painting 'Keith was here'.