She looked like an angel.
"Ok, an angel of death" he mused, staring down at the unconscious woman; her arms extended horizontally, the scars bare for all to see. A little one here, a larger one there. Some deep, some light, like the skin had only just broken, thin white lines adoring the arms, the sheer amount emphasising the severity of the situation the woman was in. The scars were not just limited to her arms either. Her legs, full of deep, angry wounds, from groin to ankle. Her stomach, marked with deep purple bruising, where the skin had healed on the outside but still bled internally. She looked like a classic abuse victim, the odd burn mark in random places on her body, the lack of injury on the face, hands or feet, anywhere that couldn't be hidden without drawing notice to herself.
The man knew different. He knew the woman, hell, he was in love with the woman, and he knew she had caused the injuries herself. He knew she found relief on making these marks, he knew the lengths she went to so that she would never be discovered. He knew about the lies, the deceit, and the secrecy she had been forced to put herself through to keep her problem to herself. He knew how much she had kept within herself, the worry of being found out worse than the feelings she had that drove her to cause the injuries. He knew, but she didn't know he did.
The doctor had said she was going to be ok, that she had been found in time before anything too severe had happened to her already dilapidated body. He thought different, he'd seen the blood pouring, pooling underneath her wrists as she lay on the floor, her body laid out in a way that mirrored Da Vinci's "Vitruvian Man". He knew that physically, she was going to be ok, but mentally, she would never be ok. She would always have the thoughts of making one more mark, the thoughts of using her blade one more time, the memories of the blood, the vital red liquid on her, on her clothes, on her blade. He knew the position, he'd been there before, and she'd helped him through it. He knew what to do.
When she woke up, she was stunned at first, then angry that she hadn't succeeded. She screamed, fought, cried, blamed everyone but herself, and refused any help, but he was always there for her. He backed off at the right time. He introduced the right people when needed. But still, she didn't get better. She craved her blade like a cigarette, regularly staring at her arms, muttering "just one more, please just one more!" before going into hysterics.
Then the day arrived. He left. He left and she broke. She refused to eat. She tried everything she could to hurt herself, deliberately falling out of her bed, deliberately spilling her hot drinks all over herself in the hope that she would burn. The doctors took away her only salvation, her cigarettes; for fear that she would burn herself when they were lit. They took away her freedom, her sanity. And she steadily descended into hell.
Eventually, she stopped eating altogether. She stopped crying, screaming, she didn't have the energy. Whether deliberately or accidentally the incident occurred we'll never know, but it doesn't matter, because not 7 minutes later she was dead, the blade on the floor stained deep red, the unmistakeable smell of blood fermenting the room as it drained from the large gaping wounds in her arms. The doctors found her on the floor; face down in her own blood. They tried for over an hour to revive her, but to no avail. They had failed her, just like everyone else.
He returned later that day to find out the news, and had to be physically restrained from the nurse who had failed her the most. He didn't cry, he just simply walked over to her body and stared, the same words running through his head over and over and over.
"She looked like an angel."
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