“Hm,” I say. I dab the cut with the towel again. The towel draws in some of the fresh blood. It’s a dark brown color in the middle now. I pull out the last piece of gravel. And, then, I stand, my hand still holding the towel to Ben’s side, my face now right next to his soft, pink neck. “Hi,” I say, to the neck itself. It has freckles, irregularly spaced. Most of them are orange and faint. Two are darker. I feel completely out of control.

“Um, hi?” Ben replies.

I feel myself leaning forward; my eyes are closed. Everything is a very deep, dark red. Then, I feel hot skin on my lips. My mouth opens. My tongue feels its way. Ben’s skin is sweet. I feel immensely powerful. I feel like my whole self is contained in just my teeth; they’re ready to bite.

“Um, Lyd?” Ben says. He takes a small step to his right away from me, and my head momentarily drops forward. His face is bright red. “Lyd . . . um . . . I don’t know, like, how to say this but . . . I have a girlfriend?”

I blink a few times. I close my mouth. The towel is still in my hand. The human in me seems to wake up.

“I mean, well, actually, she’s my fiancée. Like, I’m engaged and everything. I live with her and I . . .” Ben looks at me with an awful sympathetic and worried expression on his face. “I can’t, you know . . .” he says. “I feel really bad. You’ve been so nice, you know?”

I can’t think of what to say. It’s as though I have suddenly forgotten all words; I can’t quite comprehend what is happening. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, as though inside it is contained everything bad about myself: the part of myself that lost control, the demon part. “I . . . I’m—” I take a sharp intake of breath. I think I’m crying, but I can’t tell. “I’m so sorry . . . I . . .” I say, struggling with the s’s.

I start walking backward away from Ben, toward the studio door. The sunlight seeping through the blinds, which had been tolerable before, is agonizingly bright now, and my skin, which previously had felt fine, tingles.

“Lydia,” Ben says. His T-shirt has fallen back over his cut.

I feel for the door handle and find it. I turn it. “I need to go,” I say.

“I’m really sorry,” Ben says. “Lydia—”