She was happy. But it hit her like a train. And her heart sank. She remembered how sad she was. Getting out of bed seemed pointless. Moving, seemed pointless. She wanted so much to curl up into him. But his warmth was stolen from her. The loss of him was felt in every fiber of her being. The tiles seemed yellow through the haze of tears and running mascara. But she knew they were white. The detail seemed important, but she very well knew it was inconsequential. The razor glinted in the palm of her hand. She had never cut, but tonight was one of sorrow and utter hopelessness. She needed to feel. The music seemed to cut her heart with the razor she balanced on her fingertips. The song. Sad and mournful. The tears resurfaced, and she made her decision. She raised the razor to her arm and cut. The quick pain shocked her like the dark waters of the river in the winter. She inhaled deeply. And her tears welled up again like the beads of blood on her arm.