Cutter

By Jessica Lake

The floor psychiatrist looked down at the child-woman who lay upon the hospital bed, wheezing. A tube snaking out of her mouth, nourishing a dying body. Most of her muscle had been digested; her internal organs were failing.

Let’s just say sun-bleached roadkill would pity her.

And yet, her sunken green eyes blazed with a wild passion. No matter what she was up to, she was not done yet.

“So, I see you’re a cutter, as well. That’s quite a few chevrons, Sergeant.”

She nodded weakly, wearing an odd smile—as if the doctor had complimented her. Good girl.

“So, I guess it’s a cut for each rule broken?”

Her head tremor sounded a resolute “No, sir!”

“Well, what are they for then?“

She tilted her chin, inviting the MD closer. He put his ear to her mouth to listen. On each exhaled breath, she pushed out a word.

Hours later, the attending nurse buttonholed the psychiatrist. “What did she tell you?”

“A cut for each pound lost.”