Tracy lies in the bathtub, numb, but not from the cold water. She can’t remember ever having felt this low. Highs and lows. What she used to have. Now just the lows, with the lows becoming increasingly lower. When she’d first met Gerald, no matter how low she was, she knew she’d bounce back, the high making it worth it. There was always a light, sometimes unbelievably dim, unrecognizable to anyone but her, but still there. Now . . . no high.

   No light.

   No anything.

   A memory: The two of them together at the county fair. They’d gone to eat the deep fried food, ride the nausea-inducing rides, and play the games to win the crappy prizes. It was hot, dusty, noisy, and generally chaotic, but they were having a wonderful day. They’d eaten the food, ridden the rides, and won the prizes.

   As they were leaving, a girl, seemingly close to their own age, said hello to Gerald. He stopped and responded, giving her a quick hug. Tracy immediately disliked, no, hated the girl.

   “This is Sara,” Gerald said. “Sara, Tracy.”

   “Hi,” Sara said, smiling a genuine smile. Tracy couldn’t manage the same. Though they’d never met previously, she knew Sara. Sara was Gerald’s high school girlfriend, the one he’d been with for almost five years. They had stayed together through most of college, were each other’s first loves, had lost their virginity together.

   And Tracy was supposed to shake this bitch’s hand and smile? No fucking thanks.

   So she’d responded, “Oh hi, great to meet you,” dripping with sarcasm and a purposely fake smile before turning and walking away.

   Gerald apologized to Sara and ran after Tracy. Gerald caught up with her and, before she could stop herself, before she even knew what she was doing, she began screaming “That fucking bitch” repeatedly.

   Later that evening, Tracy had collapsed to the floor, sobbing. She had no idea why the jealously had struck her. She’d never heard Gerald say anything to indicate he was still interested in Sara. Never heard anything bad about their time together to give her grounds to hate the poor girl. She apologized for hours and, though he assured her it was okay, she knew it was definitely not okay. That it would never be okay.

   She’d felt low in her life many times before, but that was the night she realized she wanted to die.

   She still holds the razor and begins drawing it up her other leg. She stops at her inner thigh, applies a bit too much pressure and the razor slips a little, drawing blood. She watches as the slight trickle drips down, turning pink in the water. Nothing dramatic like she might see on TV, but several small drops, enough to discolor the water a bit.

   So strange that pink was the color normally associated with little girls. Happy little girls with Barbie dolls, bows in their hair, and dreams of rainbows and ponies. Happy little girls who should never grow up to lie in bathtubs, hating themselves, fascinated by the sight of their blood in the water.