Rings from my cell phone shatter my sleep.
Recognizing the ring I answer speedily.
"Help me."
The words echo in my head as I grab my keys and race to my car.
"I'm coming," I whisper as I speed down the road, my heart racing.
I pull up to her house and race out of my car, grabbing the cloth I'd prepared ahead of time for such an emergency. Did I turn off the engine?
Who cares, that's not important right now. I enter the house through the side door that is always left open for me. I leap up the carpeted stairs, and enter into her room. She's shaking. Sobbing.
"I'm sorry," she says through tears that carry more emotion than a thousand songs.
Blood drips from her thigh. Another cut upon the dozens of scars which marked another night of anxiety, depression, or loneliness. This one is deeper. I gently wrap the cloth around her thigh, place the crimson-stained blade beside her in my pocket, and hold her. I let her cry. I gently sing. I tell her I love her. My large hands swallow her small, shaking hands. My arms encase her in a cocoon of safety and love. I continue singing softly until she falls asleep, and I stay there. I continue to hold her in my arms until she wakes again. I make sure that she's alright, have my sister visit with her for the day, and depart. I arrive home and place the pocketed blade in a special box. This box is filled with blades from nights identical to this. There are fourteen blades in the box. I lock up the box and place it in a drawer. That box reminds me of something every day. I have someone to live for. Someone to fight for. Someone to love. And that someone is her.