The day she saw them is the day the light died in her eyes.

I had just finished a long shower, and was going to my bedroom with just a towel around my lower torso, leaving part of my thighs exposed to the light. As I left the warm confines of the bathroom, venturing into the shockingly cold hallway, I heard a stifled gasp from behind me.

“Oh my God…” 

she whispered.

I turn around in surprise as her eyes travel across my upper legs, gazing in horror at the red lines that crisscrossed them. Some were deeper than others, and when she saw those tears started falling from the corners of her eyes.

“Why?” 

She lingered the longest at one near my right knee, watching as a small bead of crimson was slowly pulled down by gravity. I tried to say something, anything, but watching my mother break down in front of me had robbed me of my ability to speak. I couldn’t do anything but try to cover them up as best I could. Days later I found myself lying alone in a hospital bed.

“Fifty-four,” 

the doctor said when my parents asked how many there were. I was admitted to the teen psych ward, and was “counseled” by many different psychiatrists, each one explaining what I already knew. However, one in particular stood out, since she said something that resonated deep inside of my soul. After a week, I was released, and was greeted with thin smiles and sad eyes. Nevertheless, for the most part, business continued as usual. She, however, was never the same. Her eyes water when she looks at me. Sometimes she trembles if she thinks nobody’s watching. She cried at night, long after she thought I was sleeping. You could tell she put the guilt on herself, and as much as I told her it was my fault, not hers, she would never accept that. My guilt will increase exponentially the more I see her sad, sad smile.