I wonder how she'd react if I told her the ground just slanted more and more until my feet simply couldn't find purchase on the slope. I wonder how she'd react if I told her the waves just keep coming, and I can see that they've got it in for me. For all my studiousness, for all my intelligence, I just don't know how else to put it right now. I lost the ability to breathe. I lost my fluency in your langauge of Normals. I developed this fascination with getting under my skin.

I clear my throat; my voice sounds dry and creaky, so different from a moment ago. (You give too much importance to your own fantasies, Val. Watch it,) says a voice in my head. "Um, I think the... the doctor called me in."

"Well, I know that, Valerie. I'm wondering what your side of the story is."

I have no story. My story is all plagarism. "I guess he was thinking I'd... hurt myself, or something."

"Do you think you might hurt yourself, Valerie?"

"It doesn't hurt," I say before I think. (Oh, good one, you're just waxing glib today, aren't you Val?) (Shut up,) I mutter back, being careful not to move my lips.

The woman looks me over with those pursed-up lips again. "What doesn't hurt?" Her words remind me of mine, a few moments ago. Who the fuck is they?... Don't play games with me. It's hard to be direct with someone who doesn't share your world.

"I guess when I... when I cut myself," I say.

"Dr. Herman thought those cuts were pretty serious," the woman observes, like I'm stupid. "He told us you're a lucky girl to be here, you could have done some serious damage to yourself."

When I discovered cutting maybe four years ago I thought I had it made. I ripped the plastic off of my little pink shaving razor, ripping my fingernails all to hell in the process, and caressed my skin so gently with the edge of it, and all my problems seemed to fade in a calm euphoric haze. It never lasted long, but it gave me an edge I hadn't had before. The trouble is, I guess it did get deeper and deeper, for it to still feel. My blood was used to flowing and it needed a special occasion to make me feel so calm and relieved, nowadays. It couldn't have hurt me really, though. I knew to avoid my wrists. That horrible doctor was just trying to scare me.

The woman hasn't yet told me her name. Maybe I missed it. I'm not about to ask, though. Besides awkwardness, being a drowning person in a world of people who are breathing fine has taught me that no matter what they say, stupid questions do exist. They're any question I would think to ask.

She seems to grow tired of waiting for me to respond, and went on with her speech. "So why have you been cutting on yourself, Valerie?"

Grant me the strength to answer enough questions so she gets out of here, oh please. Just that much strength, just a little bit of energy. But how do I answer such a question, and still seem normal? Close to normal, anyway. Halfway to normal. Appearances have to be kept up, even in the hospital. Otherwise the awkwardness of this would swallow me up.

"It makes me feel better," I mumble. Something about this room, the way the air manages to be stagnant and air-conditioned at the same time.

"So you've been having some problems with depression?"

"I guess so."

She scribbles triumphantly. Ah, something to put on the The Chart. I fit her mold. I'm glad cutting is more common these days; from what I've read, they used to give you a real wide berth for doing things like that. Maybe they still do, but at least they've heard of it before. I hate it when people say cutting on yourself, though. On simply isn't a preposition that goes with the word. You can cut things, you can cut through things, you can even cut into things. But you can't cut on them, unless you're perhaps sitting on top of them when you cut. I'm not a contortionist.

"Have you tried any medication for this, Ms. Nesbitt?" Oh ho, now that I have a category, I'm worthy of a surname. I feel sorry for this woman momentarily, even if she is ranged against me, jingling her keys in her pocket for security. What a tired life she must have. Even tireder than mine. At least when I gave up, they could tell. They sent me away.

She is still talking. "... been having any trouble eating, or sleeping? Have you been feeling hopeless, like there's no point? Worthless?" She seems energized, purposeful. I can see her pointy little mind thinking about Prozac and a short little stay, just till they can make me say I won't cut any more. My gift of anticipation.

I'll humor her, because I'd be just as happy with being here as little as I can. I don't care if I have to fit into her box to do it. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. "Yes, no, yes, yes."

"I see..." she wrote more quickly. "And have you seen anyone about this in the past? A therapist, a doctor?"

I catch myself on the brink of telling her that my mom wouldn't appreciate that, now, would she? Keep it short, and they'll let me out. Maybe they'll even let me out tonight. My spirits rise a tiny bit with that thought. "No," I say.

"It's probably a good idea to make an appointment at your school's mental health center," says the woman. "And a psychiatrist. You know, the right medication can really help lift your spirits. Our doctors here will be able to prescribe you something, but you'll need to have a follow up." She is closing her notebook. "In the meantime, why don't you get some rest? You'll be in room 15... Have you had supper?"

"Yes," I lied. Three hours ago I was sitting in the health center waiting on the doctors, an hour before that I was sitting in my dorm waiting on the residential assistant. I guess the cuts (day-old ones, even) freaked my roommate out. I didn't mean to let her see them. I skipped lunch, too, but that was normal. It is true that I haven't been hungry lately. Food seems like too much work.

The woman has gotten up and I glean from her posture that I'm supposed to precede her out of the room. She shows me towels, where the extra blankets are supposed to be although they're out right now, and my room.

There are two beds, both empty. The door is the same as the other, heavy and extra-wide, and the floor is just as hard and tiled. I am thankful for the solitude, and turn out the lights as soon as she goes away.

Not to sleep. To make friends with the darkness.