No. They were there. And she wants to find them again. To dig in deep and force them to resurface. Maybe this time they will come all the way out.

She holds the needle up to her arm, the steel winking under the yellow light, and presses the point to her wrist without breaking the surface. If she adds a little more pressure, maybe she can carve them out. But the more pressure she adds, the more it digs and stings and hurts. Still, she doesn’t stop. Her skin trembles and grows hot. Pain shoots up her limb. She can almost hear the creak of her skin, its wailing protest, its threats to break under the steel; its defensive shrieks. The sudden rush of pain like a whip traveling up her nerves.

She winces and retracts the needle, heavy breaths controlling her chest. Her body shakes, but she does not drop the syringe. The recoil of pain sinking back into her system feels almost euphoric. Almost like sucking on a lollipop. The fearful anticipation of quick, gut-wrenching shock . . . it feels different from what she is used to, which is boredom or anxiety.

Discomfort.

Or nothing.

The slow burnout of pain’s aftershock feels better than nothing.

Still holding the syringe, she places the dog down and carefully lifts the bandage from her finger. It slides off with little resistance and reveals the small red dot—the aftermath of a wound which has faded considerably. She stares at the red dot and the tugging returns, pulling at her guts like she is a puppet on strings. She lifts the needle and holds it an inch away from her finger, the anticipation making her skin tingle. Her spine shivers and she smiles slightly from the sensation. The tugging yanks and she guides the tip of the needle into the small red dot, feeling the snapping and breakage of her newly healed skin. At first, the pain is not so unbearable and she is a little disappointed. She bites her lip. Another yanking tug and she twists the needle, causing that final snap in her flesh.

The surge courses through her nerves, cruelly whiplashing through her system. She yelps and drops the syringe, crushing both of her hands against her mouth to keep herself silent. She doesn’t want Daddy to know. She refuses to cry. Hasn’t she already broken her promise once? He’ll be so angry if he finds out!

When the shock simmers and her other senses return, her eyes roll back. The tugging is gone and all she can feel is the rush of adrenaline. It isn’t until she notices the smell of the metal door just beneath her nostrils that she falls out of that sensation. Its overwhelming aroma is pungent, nearly making her gag. She removes her hands from her mouth and realizes her fingertips are dripping in blood. She licks her lips and can taste brown water on her tongue. Her eyes grow wide. She panics, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood across her lips while her finger continues to bleed. She tries to stop the bleeding by pressing down on the wound, but it only bleeds more when she removes the pressure, like a leaking spout with a broken valve. She wipes the excess blood on her dress and whimpers as the new dress turns from pure white to dirty red.