A short story in which the parents of a teenager are cataloguing their daughter's cuts. Their helplessness in the face of the daughter's self-injury is familiar, as is the removal of sharp objects in the family home.
Quote:
There were no consequences. There was just her husband’s notepad of wounds that they gave to the therapist, who didn’t seem do to anything except bill for $115 an hour, and nothing was getting better.
About a clinically depressed screenwriter who ends up in a psychiatric ward after mentioning suicide to his doctors. He meets a ballerina who burns herself and forms a strange relationship with her. An interesting viewpoint and after all the protagonist's romanticizing of self-injury gets more realistic.
Quote:
"Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?"
Can be read at The New Yorker's website here: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2003/12/08/031208fi_fiction
