Her face is a map of remembered trouble and absorbed guilt, The green eyes look broken, as if their glass has shattered. A motorway pile-up of wrecked mascara. Lashes jewelled with tears.
'Do you ever have those dreams,' Harriet rasped, slowly, 'where you've done something, something terrible and irreversible? Something horrific, and no matter how much you're sorry it's no good? It's indelible?'
'No.'
I didn't look at her. Didn't need to. I knew what she'd look like, lying on her side, face to the window, the city's lights minutely captured in the glossy convexities of her tired eyes. I knew she'd be unblinking, her cheek squashed in the deep pillow, her mouth dripping a single strand of spittle. I knew she'd look sad as hell.
'I have that dream all the time,' she said. 'Except when I'm asleep.'
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years -- minus a two year period. This website was made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.
