I hung up. I went into my brother’s room. He wasn’t there. I opened all his drawers and looked through them. I lifted the mattress on his bed. I checked the pockets of his jackets and coats in the wardrobe. I even checked his shoes. What was I looking for? I don’t know. But if he had a secret life, like if he was up in Ballyshane the night of the accident, there must be something. In the end all I found was a packet of Rizlas and a packet of Durex, not Tingle Me idk just common or garden condoms. I already knew he smoked dope. They all did. And everybody says a packet of Durex is a Reasonable Precaution Against Life. They told me nothing.

35

We’re living in this dead inside where nothing moves except us. Our selves are the only thing we can hurt. I started cutting that evening. I did it in the shower. I almost didn’t do it. Then I fucking slashed it. A deep slash, no thinking. Just above my T-shirt line, on my left arm. Who was I slashing? Me. There was so much blood. I think I went too deep. I thought if I pushed my finger into it I would feel my own bone, my skeleton inside my own body, the Lucy in me. I saw the blood wash out pale and pink, down my arm, down my legs, spinning down the plughole. I thought: I could fucking do myself, I could do it just now. And then I sat down and cried. The water came down on my head and burned away tears and blood. It fell on me like fire. It was the pain. The pain was me.

I did not want to be me.