She removes her clothing, careful to take off every article and every piece of jewelry, so as not to add any extra weight. Stepping on the scale, she holds her breath, hoping she won’t have to add another cut to her endless collection. One-hundred-and-fifteen pounds.  She lets out a deep sigh of relief. She hasn’t gained any weight since yesterday, in fact, she’s lost a few ounces. She faces the mirror and turns sideways. Her ribs stick out, and her stomach is as flat as can be, but she is still not satisfied. Her goal of a hundred and ten has still not been reached, so she decides to cut, anyway.
   Reaching over to her nightstand, she opens the drawer and pulls out a silver, blood-stained razor. She proceeds to cut five more deep gashes, identical to those from yesterday and beyond, without even batting an eyelash. One-hundred-eighty-six. One-hundred-eighty-six cuts, in only seventeen days. She pulls her sleeves down over her masterpieces, careful to conceal every one—every single reminder of her inescapable sadness—under them.
   “Gayle..?” A familiar voice calls from the hallway. She quickly throws the razor in the drawer and slams it shut, turning her back towards the mirror. The boy walks in, stops by the door, and looks at her. Sensing something’s not right, he walks over to her, and kisses her wrist, sleeve and all. She pulls her sleeve back, only to find her scars are gone. “Where’d they go? There were one-hundred and eighty-six of them!” “One-hundred and eighty-six what?” The boy replied. The girl stared blankly at her arm, searching for words to say. “One-hundred-eighty-six reasons to hate myself! They were all right here!” The boy smiled, and replied “Love heals all wounds.”