“Here,” I said, handing him the car keys. My fingertips brushed the scars on his palms, and I lingered there for maybe a moment too long, mesmeriz...d. I couldn’t believe that he was so self-conscious of them, that he was always hiding them away; they were beautiful, like intricate lines of linked constellations. I could look at them all day.His hand closed around the keys—and my fingers.“Don’t run,” he said, reading my shock. “Let me see your elbow. Are you hurt?”Are you hurt?The first words. Whoever said that committing suicide is a coward's way of running from reality must've been idiots. Have they themselves tried committing suicide? Did they have any idea how much courage you need to take that final step towards oblivion? Or how hard it was to move your fingers closer to the wrist and how hard it was to actually run the razor across your veins? Did they have any idea how painful and torturous it was when you're hanging by your neck? Have they ever thought how scared one felt. More

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