There are scars all across my face: clean and precise figures outlining my cheeks, chin, forehead, jaw. I don’t know how people believe that it was an accident–The story I constructed is absurd, improbable, foolish. Still, it’s accepted as my truth. But obviously, it’s not: I cut my face with a razor, held the blade with shaking hands, sliced with quick mindlessness. I had to go to the urgent clinic after one rather reckless episode. They wanted to give me stitches, but I refused, and now there is a gaping slash of red across my cheek; it’s been months, and although it is now completely healed, the color is vibrant and the skin shockingly raised.

Only one of my friends knows about this, and even then, I have not shared the details. I don’t feel any particular regret, guilt, or shame in what I’ve done. If anything there is a comfort here. If anything there is a silence.