Every morning she seeks me out. What is she looking for in my depths? Her eyes reflect back at her, two black holes vacant of light. She does not like meeting her eyes, will look quickly away if she does, pulling her long hair over her face before she ducks out of the room again.

I often hear voices raised, voices that splinter and crash against each other. When the yelling is done she comes back and huddles in the corner in front of me. She cries, her arms hugging her small body, almost as if to hold in the sobs. Almost as if to comfort herself.

But the tears won’t wash away the pain, won’t silence the anger. One night I see her pull something sharp and silver out of a drawer, the sheen of it reflecting off my surface. With quick motions she draws it back and forth across her wrists.

In the morning she reappears before me. I see the red raised scars on her wrists before she pulls her sleeves down to hide them. I see her physical pain, but I cannot see the deeper hurt, the one that exists skin deep.