Late at night, I count down from the scar in my memory to where I am now, to where I will one day be. Four months today. In another six years and eight months, no part
of me will have touched any part of you. And then I think, I will be fully recovered. Re-covered. Sometimes while I count, I cry. Very briefly. It means nothing. I consider all the words I have access to and finally write ‘help’ and slip it under the door of the empty room, along with a blank page and a pen.