"Have you ever hated yourself?’ Her question came unexpectedly and slightly muffled from the now cold cup of tea she held to her mouth. I turned to look at her, my face etched with surprise. "Why do you ask?"

She looked up at me from her small corner of the room, her eyes saddened and remorseful. Her answer was not as stifled as her question since she had placed her tea on the cold wooden floor. Strangely the answer she gave, was not what I expected, and was as though she had not heard me.

"I have, many nights I would sit in the dark, crying, until the taste of vomit would stain my mouth, and my breath was constricted with the tears that could no longer flow. I hated myself to the deepest core. My heart would burn and ache with the pure pain of it."

Then she was silent, her eyes now devoid of emotion as she stared blankly at the dying flames.

I wondered if she wanted me to still answer. I gazed at her a few more seconds hoping she would continue, or ask me again, but she didn’t.

"It’s getting late." My voice sounded oddly empty. She blinked a few times, as though she had been in a long trance, smiled sadly and stood up, her overlong sweater sleeves falling slightly over her hands.

I walked her to the door with her trailing ever so slightly behind me. Her footsteps were silent, while mine echoed rather loudly.

When we reached the door, she gave me a slight hug, and whispered goodbye. I watched her close the door, not knowing that would be the last time I would ever see her . . . alive.