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couple across the hall was what woke me up, arguing at four in
the morning like maniacs. I got up with a sigh, heading out onto the
balcony for a cigarette. And that's when I saw her. Walking down the
street, drunk again, but able to keep a straight line.
    The
guy came out of nowhere, slamming her against the wall and out of my
view. I should have reacted then. But with her active sex life, I
just figured it was one of her guys surprising her with some quick,
rough, outdoor sex. I couldn't judge them for that. It sounded like a
good time.
    Then
I heard her yell. Loud enough for the dogs in the building to stir.
“I don't give a fuck who you are.” And I was running.
Through my apartment, into the elevator that was too damn slow in
that kind of situation, then out onto the sidewalk.
    “Shut
up. You like it,” the guy had said, reaching and groping her
breasts.
    I
lost my shit.
    I
had been so good for so long, keeping myself calm, keeping myself out
of situations that could trigger the all-consuming rage that could
pop up. That I had trouble reigning in once it started. But in that
moment, all the control slipped away as I barreled toward the guy,
grabbing the back of his neck and hauling him into the street.
    I
spared Sixteen the barest of glances to make sure she wasn't hurt,
and then I went apeshit on the guy, straddling his middle and banging
my hands into his face. I forgot how good it felt. God, how fucking
good it felt. To feel you hands smash into soft flesh. To hear the
bones underneath snapping. There wasn't a high like that in the
world. At least, not for me. Not for someone with my history.
    I
was out of breath before the alarm started ringing in my head. Loud.
Shocking. I sat back on my heels, looking down at the torn flesh, the
swollen eye sockets and lips. The mess of a mangled face I had
created. And I couldn't say I hated the sight.
    I
dragged him back onto the sidewalk with the full realization of what
I had done. What the repercussions could be if I got caught. I pulled
out my phone and snapped a picture of Sixteen: her eyes huge and
scared, the marks already forming on her neck, the bruised and fat
lips, the open blouse. It would be proof enough that he got what the
fuck was coming to him.
    I
slipped my phone into my pocket, trying to keep my eyes on her face.
When she wouldn't, or couldn't, cover herself, I let my eyes drop for
the shortest possible amount of time while I zipped her up. Then I
had to pick her up and carry her up to her apartment. It was strange
to see a woman like her, a woman who seemed so badass and untouchable
be so completely vulnerable.
    I
carried her into her bathroom and set her on the floor, turning to
wash the blood off my hands. Like I had done countless times before.
Watching it lighten and swirl around the sink before going down the
drain.
    I
heard her moving and turned, watching as she rolled onto her side,
curling up into herself. Her skirt hitched up and her full left thigh
became visible. I knelt down on the floor behind her, reaching out.
Unable to stop myself from touching them. The dozens of red, pink,
white marks from a careless blade and self-loathing hand. I knew she
had issues, but damn.
    It
took more than most people realized to sink a blade into your own
skin. The sensation of animalistic self-preservation is hard to
overcome. You had to really need the rush of relief to be able to
make yourself do it. Sixteen had some demons. And instead of facing
them, she was burying them. In all the sex, in the alcohol, in the
splitting of her own flesh. She was spending her life punishing
herself.
    She
fell asleep quickly on the floor and I didn't want her to wake up in
her bed, confused, and freaked out at how she got there. So I left
her on the floor. I took off her shoes before going into my apartment
to change into something less bloodstained before coming right back.
    Because
on top of everything else, she shouldn't wake up alone. Not after
that kind of night. I slipped