Then, when my salesman remained snoring blissfully unaware, telling myself this was what set me apart from my family. I was not like my sister. I was not like my father.

I was not driven by a need to inflict pain. I just . . . Sometimes . . .

No sound mind would do what I was about to do. And yet. And yet . . .

My right hand moved. Four quick strokes. Two long, two short. Incising a thin ribbon of skin, approximately three inches in length and not even a quarter of an inch wide. Then, using the blade of the scalpel, wicking it away from the flesh, until it landed warm and wet in the palm of my left hand.

Blood welling up on the surface of the salesman’s numbed skin. I picked up my own black panties and held them against the wound till the bleeding slowed, then stopped.

Moving quickly now, back to the bathroom. Ribbon of skin placed in an empty glass vial. Sealed, then labeled. Used anesthetic wipe, scalpel, everything, tucked into the plastic case, then slid once more into my purse. Hands washed. Face and mouth rinsed.

Heart starting to pound, fingers shaking, as I struggled with each article of my clothing. Finally, skirt on, bra, top, boots. Dragging a hand through my mane of brown hair before sweeping up the loose strands on the floor and flushing them down the toilet. One last glance in the mirror. Seeing my own face and yet feeling like a total stranger, as if I’d stepped outside my own skin. My sister should be standing here. Or my father.

Not the one who looked like my mother. The supposed innocent.

I reached behind myself, snapped off the bathroom light.

I stood alone in the dark. And I wasn’t afraid anymore, because the dark was now my friend. I’d joined forces with it. It had told me what it wanted me to do, and I’d relied on it for cover.

Traveling salesman Neil would wake up in the morning with a raging headache from too much alcohol, a more pleasant soreness in other parts of his body, and a dull pain in the back of his shoulder.

No doubt, when he went to shower, he’d try to inspect his back in the bathroom mirror. At which point he’d spy a red stripe down his left shoulder blade, slightly puckered at the edges. He’d puzzle over it. Wonder if he banged into something. Except the wound would appear more like a broad scratch, meaning maybe he snagged himself on something, a belt buckle, a sharp strap.

Eventually, he’d shrug, climb into the shower. The wound would most likely sting for a second; then that would be that. It would heal, leaving behind a faint white line, the source of which remained forever a mystery.