Slowly she rocked back to sit on her behind, then she slumped back against a neighboring brick wall. Her lips pressed into a frown and her eyebrows knitted together uncertainly.

In her hand, the knife stayed. Tremors came into her wrists, subtle but determined, and the dull blade fell to the concrete with a small clang. Shakily, she lifted her hands up to her face and she rubbed it. Beneath her skin, her muscles unleashed thousands of spasms, only slightly visible beneath her clothes. Carly tried to regain her composure, but she was lost at sea and she’d left it at shore.

“Exhausted,” she muttered, one knee brought up and her elbow propped on top of it. Her fingers splayed over the top of her brow and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I’ve got a headache. I feel like a fucking diabetic or something.” Waiting for the sugar spike, for her insulin to come in and soothe her wild nerves. Unfortunately, it didn’t come. Blood trickled down her forearm and on the left side of her head, where’d she’d been clipped.