“Charlotte!” I yelled as I took three steps at a time to get up to my and Charlotte’s floor in the apartment building. I sprinted up to her door and pounded on it, not sure whether or not anyone was listening to me or able to hear, “Charlotte!”

No response.

I tried the doorknob and it oddly turned freely and I walked right into her apartment.

Charlotte was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by multiple sketches of hers torn apart. Her arms sat limp on either side of her body, covered in perhaps 10 or 12 gashes that were still bleeding quite a bit.

And the razor, her tool, was on the other side of the room, in its own small puddle of blood. I was guessing she had thrown it from where she now sat, “Holy shit Charlotte! You’re going to bleed out!”

I rushed over and kneeled down to look her in the eyes, make her look at me.

She gave me a long blank stare before blantantly stating, “Now Nolan, don’t you know by now that that’s the fucking point?”