Headlights poured over her in a blinding flood and did not fade as the vehicle parked across from her. The lights did not dim and the driver did not get out as the moments stretched into a minute.

Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, she squinted at the car until her bright eyes could trace the distinct outline of a PT Cruiser, one better light would reveal to be a bloody shade of red. Lurching to her feet gracelessly, she scooped up the strap of a denim messenger bag—filled to bursting at the seams, the headlights glinting off various sized buttons and creating dark stains of the round and rectangular  patches adorning it—and took a last drag on the cigarette before flicking the butt at the cruiser, stooping to grab stained, ratty sneakers as she strolled to the driver’s side.

The window was down but the man did not look at her, knuckles white and bloodless with strain as he clutched the steering wheel. The scruff lining his cheek and jaw turned to her spoke of a need to shave, but it couldn’t hide the lines of tension fanning out from his thin lipped mouth, his repressed anger apparent in the tight compression of his lips and flared nostrils. “Why did you call me?” And his clipped tone.

One side of her red mouth curled with devious humor and she leaned against the door, ducking her head to his level. The reek of tobacco rolled off her breath and clothes as she answered and he held his breath for a moment to keep from being overwhelmed. “I missed you, Patrick.” There was an unmistakable taunt in her low, husky voice. “You were my favorite teacher.” She leaned forward still more to kiss his cheek, the bristles of growth scratches her lips slightly. “My special teacher.” Her voice dropped a little lower and so did the almost-mischief fall away. “Don’t you remember?”

Even in the poor light she could see him swallow and the muscles of his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. “What do you want?” The question was almost a growl.

Her expression hardened. “You took advantage of me. Now I’m returning the favor.” She thrust herself away from the driver’s side and stalked around the front of the car to the passenger’s. His foot twitched on the gas as he fought the urge to run her over, but then she was sliding into the seat beside him and the opportunity was lost. “Take me home,” she drawled, relaxing into the seat and propping her feet on the dashboard. She rolled her head to pin him with a pointed look. “Your home.”

The ride was silent but for the rush of wind by her open window. At one point Patrick thought she had fallen asleep but when he glanced at her again she was staring blankly out the windshield, the streetlights giving her pale skin a sickly look.

Twenty minutes of tense silence later, his body aching from the muscle strain he inflicted on himself, he pulled into the driveway, winding up to his dark, empty house. No wife, no family, not even a dog to share his sprawling three level house.

Her mouth twisted briefly as she looked up at the imposing brick face but when he caught her eye she blew him a kiss. “I need a shower,” she remarked as he fumbled to unlock the door quietly in the dark.

“Yes, you do,” he answered dryly. “How long have you been on the street?”

“A week,” she said, and he blinked in surprise, then again when she turned on the kitchen light. Bright light slid over matching metallic appliances, dark marble counter tops and stainless steel utensils. She snagged an apple from a carelessly arranged bowl at the edge of the counter and found her way to the stairs.

“Are you going to help yourself to my home?” he demanded, sharply annoyed.

“You once told me ‘mi casa es su casa,’” she replied glibly, rubbing the apple idly against her lower lip. “I’ll be down shortly. And don’t fret, Patrick,” she ran her fingers through his hair as she passed him; he pulled away. “It’s only for tonight. Then you’ll never see me again.”

When she reached the end where man made chunks of cement tapered into the water with rough, eroded edges and awkward footholds, her pale blouse clung to her damply and the bottoms of her jeans were darkened and waterlogged. This didn’t stop her from sitting on a suitable softened round surface, stretching her legs out and bracing herself and then sighing heavily.

She closed her eyes as she undid the buttons of her top, tipping her head back once more and there was nothing to shelter her from the fierce gusts of wind the ripped towards the land, tangling her hair angrily. The material of her shirt flapped helplessly as it hung from her shoulders. Her bra she cut carelessly with the large, sharp knife gripped in her steady hands and she didn’t hesitate as she dragged it down between her breasts. The skin split under the keen edge, and a line of blood flowed down her stomach, thickening as she pressed the blade deeper until the sternum resisted.

Taking a deep breath, she gripped the hilt with both hands and shoved, gasping as the tip broke through the bone, then dragging it down purposefully. Panting a little, she set the knife aside and pressed a blood slicked hand to the gaping wound on her chest. Holding her breath, she plunged her hand inside and withdrew it tightly wrapped around her beating heart, grimacing and sweating.

As the silver moonlight fell on it, the arteries attached to it faded from view, and various chains, ropes and threads dangled like a knotted mess of gaudy jewelry draped over the throbbing muscle, all linking between the opening in her chest and stretching back towards the shore, a few reaching out across the lake and fading with the distance.

Barely breathing, she began snapping the thin, pale threads and they lashed back across her hands, cutting them, before crumbing into dust, scattered by the currents in the air. When the thicker strands refused to break as easily, she set the thumping heart in her lap and hunched forward, hugging herself tightly for a few moments before setting to work again.

It was slow going, untangling the cords and twisting them from their anchors rather than breaking them. After the first few she began to cry out in pain when one was detached from the heart and shadow bruises played over her skin. Tears slipped freely from her eyes when all that was left were the thick linked chains. Burn marks stripped her palms and forearms, a nosebleed had gone untended, and she was trembling so violently she could barely maintain her grasp on the slowly juttering heart.

Her hands began to bleed as she wrenched on the fetters and they barely shifted despite her ferocious efforts. Screaming with frustration, she yanked with all her might and the metal groaned, but what gave was her spine, snapping straight suddenly and she collapsed, shrieking, voice echoing across the waters. Several agonizing seconds later her muscled relaxed enough to allow her to curl up, sobbing, heart pumping frantically where it lay a few inches from her, released from her twitching hand.

She did not move until the moon was nearly set, weakly pushing the pounding heart and remaining chains attached back into her chest. She fumbled for a needle and thread to close the opening in her flesh, pressing the pieces of her breastbone back together with a wince.

She stood slowly and stiffly, buttoning her blouse sluggishly, unmindful of the blood stains as she headed back down the pier. The weight in her chest seemed heavier than ever as she limped back towards the shore, and the sun spilled over the horizon far out across the water.

It’s frigid and dirty in the empty back lot, there’s sweat and the hot puffs of panting breath curling in the air, but she’s not there. She’s in her favorite teacher’s classroom, eating his lunch because he’s not there to protect it, uninvited and causing trouble but not unwanted.

If she were there, it’d be painful, and cold, back scraped cruelly over broken pavement and shattered fragments of glass, but she’s not really there, so it’s only distant contemplation of the pain she might be in if she were there. Which she’s not. She’s too busy chasing her cousins down the street, because they let her ferret out, and she’s not really angry, but they think she is, that her screams of laughter are rage and that only makes her laugh harder. When her mother and aunt try to scold her, she only responds with a sharp little grin, silent defiance.

If she were there, it’d be shameful and she’d be afraid, crushed by uncharacteristic claustrophobia, but that’s only on the edges of her psyche, because at her core she can’t be touched. In her mind she trains her ferrets, how to be perfectly well behaved and when to be wild and dangerous, curling up with all five of them draped over her, unable to move without disturbing them and not wanting to, ingraining every detail of the way their fur feels and the warmth of their little bodies and the un-rhythmic pattern of their breathing because, dammit, she can’t pay attention to where her physical body is just yet.

He’s talking to her now, taunting her and insulting her, but she can’t hear him. She doesn’t feel anyone’s hands groping crudely across her chest and hips, nor the hot, damp tongue chasing her neck in the wake of merciless teeth, nor the too large cock abusing her insides. Blood doesn’t run down her thighs or drip on the ground, she hasn’t hooked her knees around his thighs to try and control the brutal pace, and she is not, by any stretch of the imagination, abetting her attacker for survival. She isn’t telling him how good he is, or that he excels beyond any lover she’s ever had.

She can’t be there to fake an orgasm, because she’s not there. She’s where these things–the voice, the hands, the humiliation–can’t touch her, can’t hurt her.

Because she’s not there, later, when the blood has been scrubbed and soaked away, the cuts and bruises faded and closed, she can pass him in the street, see him and not care, do nothing.

Because she wasn’t there for any of it.

He’s free to walk away, laughing and satisfied. “Call me,” the man, boyguymale him, tosses over his shoulder teasingly.

It’s a warm day, pleasant, but when the wind kicks up it blasts over the lingering piles of snow and is cold when it hits the skin. She stood on the edge of the bluff, sloping sharply down to the sea, rocking onto her toes. They depressed into the softening ground, the unseasonable heat breaking the earth out of the hard grip of frost. She leaned back onto her heels and the mud squelched under her shoes.

She lifted her face to look out across the water, hard iron gray near her, darkening to blue further out towards the horizon. A snapping breeze hit her hard and she leaned against it, hair whipping her face and tangling. Tears glistened her eyes, and the cruel gust only had a little to do with it.

Wrapping her arms around herself she sighed heavily, closing her eyes against the stinging cold. Her lips moved as she spoke without sound, nothing for the wind to catch and carry to absent ears.

Shuddering, her eyelids slid up and she tilted her face back, squinting at the bright sky. The blue was a richer shade than it had been in so long, the sun’s glare uninhibited by scuttling clouds or solid gray cover. Spring was coming, in the moist earth and the shivering damp blades of grass, and there would be the noise of insects and the blush of flowers across the fields. Life would soften and flourish before sliding into the humid clinging heat of summer.

Exhaling, she licked her chapped lips and whispered the only thing that needed to be said aloud. “Goodbye.”

She turned and walked away from the edge, leaving behind the thaw of winter.

He chose her carefully. Her name was Sophie. He knew this because he had peeked at her school ID. She lived with her mother, but not her father; he had listened in on phone conversations. He knew her schedule better than she did, because she still pulled it out to check some days. She didn’t have any friends, didn’t even sit with other people between classes.

That’s why he picked her.

It was a Wednesday, and she had three hours between her morning class and afternoon class; she was reading. She had a small round table that fit four people all to herself. There were a lot of people at the other tables, so at first she only glanced up when he sat down across from her, but then he moved and sat beside her and she looked up warily, drawing back a little.

“I—I’m sorry to disturb you,” he began, leaning away politely now that he had her attention. “I know you don’t know me. M—my name is Isaac…”

“Look—”she started to interrupt, shutting her book.

“Please h—hear me out,” he held up a hand but a little more violently than she was expecting because she stiffened warily in response. “My name’s Isaac, I said that already, um, I live with my father, mother and two older brothers, Jake and Daniel. Jake is a genius, like two hundred plus IQ, you know?” He tried to laugh but she wasn’t looking amused, but she was looking at him. “So’s Daniel, but not in the same… mathematical…logic, genius way. He’s really good with music, any instrument and singing and…I think they call it perfect pitch.”

He stopped, mouth hanging open in the formation of another word that never reached sound. Sophia cocked an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

He dropped his gaze, fidgeted a little. “No. No, I…I’m not like them. Or my parents. They’re smart too, a doctor and a lawyer. I’m not smart enough to do anything and make a mark on the world like they can, but I can do this.” He picked his bag up from the chair he had left it on, unzipped it and pulled out a small handgun.

Sophie jerked back, inhaling sharply, holding her breath with fear.

“No, no, I’m not going to hurt you, not with this,” he said hastily. “Please, don’t scream, I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry.”

Before she could react he lifted the gun, set the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger.

People screamed and started running, diving under tables, shouting for help. Sophie stared at the boy, blood splattered across her face. She could taste it on her tongue because her mouth had been open. Her stomach boiled with nausea, but she was frozen, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even scream.

She thought in the margins, too, the inch of space in notebooks and printouts. Rarely was a paper or assignment turned in without some amount of scrawl in her cramped, anxious handwriting. Only when she had n more margins would she turn the page over and write on the back, starting at the bottom and working her way up, slowly filling the blank expense of a field of white.

The first impulse hit her in sixth grade, as they waited to pass the night’s sheet forward. The teacher always used a pink pen to grade, so Klara wrote Why pink? Why not purple? Or rose? Or green or lilac or blue or jade or… she listed color after color, rolling down the page until she had to turn it in. And the teacher answered Because I like pink.

Klara realized then that she could have a conversation that she was too scared to verbalize. So she began jotting down questions, but in middle school the teachers stopped answering and she was scolded for the mess. It didn’t make her stop, only made her write smaller and less legibly, and she talked less and wrote more. By high school she was just as likely to answer a question by writing it down and showing the speaker. She talked to boys in carefully worded notes. Some thought she was weird, but she found she cared less about what they had to say than what they had to write. Like the red-inked FREAK across her locker.

It wasn’t only questions she penned, but opinions and commentary and preferences and dislikes. There were rants and speeches and poems and twining lines of lyrics, quotes and proverbs. There were days where she only wrote the same word over and over again.

Love me love me love me love me. Anything thing thing thing thing thing think I think I think I think don’t.

One day she was suspended for writing fuck you all over her physics work sheet. She didn’t apologize.

She’d also write conversations between herself and imaginary people or the imaginary responses of people she knew, or ideas for a story or she’d make a character with no world.

One day in her freshman year of college she drifted outside the margins.

There once was a bee, a boy, a butterfly. The bee buzzed around, the flutterby buttered fly, the boy lay still and cold. The flutterby told a lie and the bee was sent to jail—her pen slipped off the paper and scrawled across the desk. She stared at the word—jailjailjail—and then continued on. In the field the boy lay cold and still. The bee was in the jail, the butter flutter by and the wind is sighing still.

Klara discovered that everything had a margin. The walls, the halls, the bathroom stalls, all became her canvas. She carried markers and pens and now her papers were clean because she decorates the desk, her jeans, herself. She wrote too much for them to cover it up fast and slowly people began to notice. One day she opened a book and discovered someone else had something to say.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we all walk in a road of rust.

Klara laughed so loud the librarians kicked her out.

One day they tracked her down. “Did you do this?” They showed her a photo of the single stall bathroom with a lock on the door. Over every surface, walls, doors, toilet paper and towel and soup dispensers, sink, mirror, toilet, even the garbage can was written the same thing. Save me. Save me save me save me save meSAVEME. She shrugged. “What do you want to be saved from?” they said.

And she spoke. “It’s just a word.”

“It’s two words.”

She shook her head but didn’t speak again. It was just a word.

When they left her alone she wrote on her left hand. Shame, shame, shame, shame on me, on you, fool, shame days night love heat shame cold hard dead shame lust.

They wanted her to talk to someone; she didn’t want to talk. They forced her back into the margins and everyone unlearned her language, crossing out and hiding the words they wrote. Still she scribbled and scrawled and scratched and blackened the margins, filling in between the lines.

One day she wrote in blood.