Abby.

Razor in hand, you stand in the shower like you have every morning for the past eight years, wondering whether to shave your legs or try to slit your throat. Rosy cheeks and stupid smiles aside, you never really were the cheery person you seemed to be. You contemplate this, among other things, until the beads of water rolling down your back turn cold and every hair on your body stands on end. You tell yourself that it's difficult to shave in such a condition, carefully returning the pink Lady Bic razor to the same place you've put it for the past eight years, and sit on the floor of the shower until you can feel your hands again.

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