Read Cry for Help for Free Online Page B

images of burning meat, of charred carcasses hanging in the air around her, of blood running between the cobbles on the floor.
    As frightened as she was, Mary was most concerned about the small, innocent boy standing behind her. She kept trying to block his view and protect him - but she couldn't, and it was making her cry. Every time she moved, his face slipped around her.
    She'd woken up sobbing hysterically. That same feeling of helpless, terrified frustration had stayed with her for the past three days, building until now it felt like she would explode.
    The silent television screen flickering before her, Mary leaned forwards and wrapped her forearms under her legs. Head to knees. Body shaking.
     
    She turned on the light.
    When she'd moved into the spare room of Katie's flat, Mary hadn't brought much stuff with her. There was hardly any room, but that was okay: her possessions amounted to little more than her clothes, a handful of books, her body, and a box full of more personal belongings that she always needed to have close by.
    On her hands and knees in the bedroom, Mary rummaged inside the box until she found what she wanted, then went to the kitchen and selected a small bowl. She took the items back through to the lounge, moving slowly, as if sedated. Everything she saw in front of her was blurred by tears.
    Thinking was almost impossible, but . . .
    Close the curtains.
    She could hear people on the main street outside, a storey below - laughing and joking - and she shut them all out and sat down on the settee. In the silence, she could hear herself crying.
    Open the bag.
    Once upon a time, as all stories begin, this had been her mother's sewing kit. When she was a little girl, she'd been fascinated by it: all those secret layers of fabric, slit open into hiding places for needles and packets of looped, multi-coloured thread. Her mother had left it behind when she finally moved away and, when Mary was a teenager, she'd discarded the sewing materials along with all the other things of her mother's she'd never look at again. From the very first foster home, she used the kit to carry tools she actually needed.
    Mary took out the antiseptic liquid and poured some into the bowl. She selected a razorblade and immersed it, then produced cotton buds and antiseptic cream, placing them on the table beside the bowl for later.
    Take deep breaths.
    She did, but after a minute she was still shaking. Right there and then, she couldn't imagine anybody might feel more alone or completely without hope than she did. For the past few days, she'd resisted. But now, rather than fighting against it any longer, she allowed the feeling to fill her. It was like poison. The emotions poured out of her heart, forcing themselves in clotted lumps through her arteries and veins.
    And then she finally began: rolling up her trouser leg, folding the material back on itself. There were a few scars there already - a criss-cross of old white lines amongst the fine, almost invisible hair - but still plenty of space.
    Keep breathing.
    She picked out the razor blade, shaking liquid off it.
    When the first cut appeared, blood beading down the line, the sting of it felt like the first physical sensation she'd had all day.
     
    Afterwards, Mary had exactly twenty new lines on the back of her calf, which was swollen, warm and felt like it was humming. The skin ached, but in a comfortable, pleasant way. She cleaned the wounds carefully with antiseptic before smothering her leg with cream. Blood still leaked out, forming red capillaries in the white, but she kept dabbing it gently with cotton pads. It didn't matter.
    She was filled with euphoria.
    Blood had gone everywhere, though. It had pooled around her ankle, and the smooth floor was messy with it. There were circles and stars from drips, and smeared curls where her bare foot had twitched across. The tissues she'd used were screwed up: blotched poppy-red, then discarded here and there. Even the mess was