She sits alone, silence envelops her. Darkness surrounds her; the urge overwhelms her. She knows that she shouldn’t, can’t: won’t, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to. It would be so easy to just pick up something, anything and have at it. Her skin is a canvas, just waiting to be cut and scarred and seared to perfection. Then everything would be ok, then everything would be special, then everything would be beautiful.