“It’s your decision,” she says, scratchy pen hovering over photocopied paper. A narrow stare of pity and judgement.
I look at my fingers, scratched and bloodied. My lip feels fat against my teeth. My ribs protest as I shakily inhale.
I think of the apologies coming my way; the love, dropping like a nuclear bomb, saturating me in radiation. Will never happen again. Never. Just love you too much. Please.
My breath settles.
I made my choice before she walked in. She knew my choice before she sat down.
“Your decision,” she says, again.
“I fell down the stairs,” I say.