My head feels heavy as I walk up the stairs to my apartment. The way the light hits the banister, creating shadows on the wall, reminds me of bars on a jail cell. I should have never made that call. It hurts to even think of it.

My breath hard in the receiver, the sound of desperation in my voice, it was as if I was one of those Suicide girls in that novel, Survivor.

He said, come over, it'll be ok.

But I knew then that it never would be. The click of the receiver as I hung up on his worried sighs reminded me of a key in a lock.

I wouldn't call him again, a lie I tell myself every single time he hurts me.

And his wounds are really just my own. It was always this way.

The morning light is blinding as I step into the bathtub, my reflection in the mirror is hard to look at. My eyes are dark and smudged and I know I look like the girl I was always rumored to be. I need to stop drinking, but it never is enough. He's always trying to get me to stop, even with the times that I was hospitalized I can't help but come home every night to a bottle of wine and a stain in my dress.

You're so young, he says. But only if he knew what it is like to be young today. The morning traffic that threatens you, the knowledge that if you take one wrong step you're gone. No one would even really know you were there in the first place.

That's why I'm still here. I need to be, I need to leave my mark even if it's only on a small corner of society. Or so I tell myself.

I fear being forgotten; I carve my initials into furniture, I paint the walls with my words, I do anything to leave a mark. But what am I doing now? I've started planning my last goodbye.