By Conor Kelly
“I’ll stick around,” she told me, “till the bandages come off.”
It was New Year’s Eve, and we were in the emergency ward of Saint Vincent’s Hospital. We had been arguing at the kitchen table when I slit both my wrists, quickly, with the carving knife she used to cut the turkey for a curry. I wanted to make a point. I wanted her to stay.
She called an ambulance, and we drove through rain so heavy it dampened the city’s celebrations. They bandaged my bloodied wrists and sent me to the psych ward.
“I’ll stick around,” she said.
She won’t.
She shouldn’t! Nicely written.