Chapter 5: The Cut That Didn’t Hurt I held the knife. The rust flaked off onto my fingers. I didn’t wipe it away. I just stared at the hospital photo in my other hand. Me. Lying there. Tubes in my arm. Mouth open. Not asleep. Not resting. Just gone. Or going. The counter sat at 227. Frozen. I didn’t know why. I turned the knife over. The handle was wrapped in cloth that had frayed at the edges. It felt heavy. Not because it was big. Because it meant something. I didn’t know what yet. But the room had given it to me after I said I left her because I thought she’d be safer. That answer wasn’t enough. It never is. The room doesn’t want truth. It wants confession. It wants me to dig deeper. To hurt myself with the truth until I bleed it out. So I did. I pressed the blade against my left palm. Not hard. Just enough to feel the edge. I dragged it across. A thin line opened up. Blood welled. Not fast. Not gushing. Just enough to stain the skin. I watched it. Waited for something to happen. A memory. A flash. A voice. A door. Anything. Nothing. Just the blood. Just the photo. Just the knife. Just me. I squeezed my hand. The blood dripped onto the floor. One drop. Two. Three. I counted them. I didn’t know why. Maybe because the counter wasn’t moving. Maybe because I needed to count something. Maybe because if I didn’t count, I’d start screaming. The intercom crackled. Not the same voice. Not the cold one. This one was softer. Warmer. Like someone who used to know me. Like someone who used to care. “You always chose pain over truth.” I looked up. The speaker was still black. Still silent. But the voice had come from there. I knew it. I didn’t need to see lips move. I didn’t need to hear breathing. I just knew. I wiped my bloody palm on my pants. The fabric soaked it up. Dark red against gray. I didn’t care about the stain. I cared about the voice. It sounded like her. The woman in the photo. My sister. I didn’t remember her voice. But my body did. My chest tightened. My throat closed. My eyes burned. I didn’t cry. I never cry. But something inside me cracked open. Like a door I didn’t know was locked. I looked at the hospital photo again. Me. Lying there. Why? What happened? Did I do something? Did she? Did we? The counter stayed at 227. The voice didn’t speak again. I walked to the chair. Sat down. Put the knife on the table. Next to the first photo. The one with the boy and the woman. The one with the sun. The one where she leaned into him like he was worth holding onto. I put my bloody hand on my knee. Looked at the cut. It wasn’t deep. It wouldn’t kill me. Not faster than the counter would. But it was real. It was mine. I did it. I chose it. The room didn’t react. The walls didn’t move. The lights didn’t flicker. The air didn’t thin. Nothing. I leaned back. Closed my eyes. Tried to remember. Tried to feel. Tried to hear her voice again. Nothing came. Just silence. Just the weight of the knife. Just the image of me in that bed. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Something moved. Not the whole floor. Just a small square. Near my feet. It slid open. Quiet. Smooth. No warning. Just movement. I stood up. Looked down. Inside the opening was a syringe. Clear glass. Silver cap. A label taped to the side. One word. “Remember.” I crouched down. Reached in. Pulled it out. It was cold. Heavy. Real. I turned it in my hand. The label was handwritten. Neat letters. Familiar handwriting. I didn’t know whose. But I knew I’d seen it before. I stood up. Held the syringe in one hand. The knife in the other. The counter still at 227. The voice still gone. The photo of me in the hospital still on the table. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what the syringe did. I didn’t know if it would help me remember. I didn’t know if it would kill me faster. I didn’t know if it was a gift or a trap. I just knew I had to choose. Again. Like always. The floor panel slid open.