She did not open her eyes. For how long had she been asleep? Did she faint? She was lying on the bed. At least that was a good sign. She knew what had happened, even though she could not remember anything clearly.

She knew what had happened, and she knew it was bad, very bad this time. She still kept her eyes closed, she just lay there and felt how her senses slowly woke up from their coma. She felt a stinging pain in her upper arms, her thighs and on her back. And a weak taste of blood in her mouth. She sighed. She would have to open her eyes sooner or later. See the disaster. And clear it up. Slowly she let her eyes slide open. The ruthless light from the lamp on the ceiling above her bed penetrated her eyes and made them water. She moaned and resisted the impulse to shut her eyelids again. Instead she rolled over on her stomach, found strength in her arms that did not really exist and pushed herself up to standing.

Her vision got diffuse and the floor bobbed under her feet. She focused her gaze on the floor and held her arms out in an attempt to regain her balance. It took far too long. How much blood did she lose? When her sight had become clear enough to make out the red stains on the floor just in front of her she got the answer; far too much. She slowly let her gaze wander around the room. The white sheets on the bed where stained with dark red patches. The walls were filled with smudgy handprints and other marks that she could not make out what part of her body they had come from.

The floor was worst. Footprints everywhere. And a large coagulated puddle in the other corner of the room, just underneath the window. She lowered her gaze again. Did not want to look at that corner, not just now. But she would not close her eyes. This was her mess and she was going to face it. She walked across the room to the wardrobe. The door was open. She poked it slowly with her index finger, the door squeaked, it could have been the noise from a crying human. She shivered at the thought and forced it to leave her brain, kept focusing on her finger that pushed the wardrobe door, it moved slowly and eventually it was almost shut and she faced the mirror on the front of it.

The woman who looked back at her was skinny, pale, and, as everything else in the room, covered in blood. It was hard to tell where the wounds were as the blood covered almost every inch of her body.

Her dark hair was clogged together. She wore a pair of underpants that used to be white. Now they were also stained dark red. She bent down and carefully pulled them off, a feeling that felt similar to when you remove a plaster. She stepped out of them and looked back in the mirror. She put her head on the side in what could have been interest. Now she had a white stripe just at the very centre of her body. It looked surreal. Like one of those awkward artworks you could see in galleries sometimes. That kind of artwork that you pretend to understand but the truth is it only makes you feel sick and gives you nightmares.

She realised the blood was running down her legs again, the worst wounds had not stopped bleeding yet. She took a deep breath and looked into the mahogany coloured eyes of her reflection. Then she nodded to herself and slowly walked into the bathroom. There were footprints on the floor in there as well. And smudged marks on the walls, the sink, the toilet, the bathtub and the shower curtain. She stepped in to the tub and twisted the tap. She groaned in pain when the icy water whipped her back where the flesh was still open. She sat down on the floor of the tub and watched while the water turned red before it went down the plughole. She drew her knees up to her chin and put her arms around her legs. This was where she allowed herself to cry, where her tears were hidden behind the water from the shower.