I can't breathe. I'm staring into the bathroom mirror at a face that I'm sure will never be good enough. The tears are flowing in waves and my face is contorted with the sadness I feel. I revel in the feeling of release I will have soon. I grab a razor from the cabinet and work to break the head in half so that the sharp edge of the blade is exposed. This takes a moment, and for a second I am unsure of what I'm doing. Once the blade is free I look down at my right wrist. It's slightly tanned and I can see the blue veins beneath the surface of the thin skin there. There are no scars here yet; I had never harmed myself badly enough to leave a scar. I was afraid of it being discovered. This time was different. I was still afraid of being caught, but now I knew I couldn't swallow any more emotional pain without relieving some of it physically. I wiped a couple more tears from my puffy face and went to work. The first cut was somehow always the worst. I made the first one lightly, testing the territory and watching with a sort of sick fascination as beads of light red slowly appeared on the surface. I took a deep breath and then slash as hard as I dare. The cut was moderately deep and was parallel to the first one. Dark red blood oozed from the slit. My breathing was slowly calming. I quickly made about 10 more cuts, some on top of others. I sat down on the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall. I looked at my write and watched the thick blood flow. I could see white bubbles of fat inside the cuts, and the blood drip down my hand and onto the tiled floor. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. It felt great. It was like being high. I was shaky but relaxed. I felt my emotions drain away with the blood. I stood up, disposed of the broken razor, and looked in the mirror. The tears had stopped and I looked at my eyes, which were light gray, and noticed their bloodshot appearance. I shook my head, clearing the fog in my mind. Sighing, I washed blood from my wrist and I looked at the skin. Just as it had done since the night of that party, the skin had healed. I wondered if I was the only person in the world who could do this. I had been afraid to tell anyone. In fact, Jane was the only one who knew. After the paramedics had examined us that night, Jane and I had gone back to her apartment and experimented on my strange new skin. We tried everything from paper cuts to gruesome slashes with scissors. The skin always managed to heal itself in less than a minute. We were stumped. I was like something straight out of a chemical spill. Jane was sure that this was just the beginning. I hoped not.