I walked out with a head full of self-doubt. Had I really just seen my girlfriend with another man? I slammed the door, just to make sure.

            The street was cold and empty. My only company was the razorblade in my back pocket. Indeed, it was my only friend on many nights similar, at least before I met her. Now I knew we would be making up for lost time tonight.

            I collapsed at the end of her driveway, one of my feet sinking into the wet gutter. My head hit the concrete, sending jolts of pain to my eyes. Next to my head was an open bucket of chalk; earlier in the day we had scribbled our names onto the drive, complete with cliché little hearts.

            I couldn’t get the image out of my head: my girlfriend sliding off her dress, a man sitting naked at the foot of her bed. The painting I had done for her was crooked over them. But had I really seen it? Could I trust my tainted mind?

            Tears were dripping down my face, even though I tried to stop them. I didn’t need to cry! Everything was going to be fine. This was just a silly mishap, a mistake.

            I knew that was a lie.

            Reaching into my pocket, I took out the razorblade. It was wrapped in a fine white handkerchief, which was speckled with blood. I unravelled it gently, careful not to cut my fingers. It was obvious that I had some skill with this, because I was quick and efficient. I wanted to get down to business.

            I sat up, kicking the chalk into the grass. The razor sat poised on my left wrist, ready to leave its mark. The existing scars were dull in the coming moonlight.

            I looked at the door anxiously. Had she even noticed me walk in on them? And if she had, would she come looking for her traumatized boyfriend? Did she care at all? “Just come out,” I said under my breath. “Just come out and be with me. I don’t want to have to do this.” The door didn’t budge.

            Grabbing a stray piece of chalk, I threw it directly at her window. Surely that would bring her out. It shattered against the glass. There wasn’t even the vaguest hint of movement.

            I searched for the place where we had written our names. This was where I would do it, I decided. This was where I would make her remember.

            Sitting the razor on the ground momentarily, I took my cell phone from my pocket. This was my last effort. She had to come. My fingers shook as I dialled her number; I couldn’t look at her picture when it appeared on the screen.

            It rang. With each passing second my heart beat louder, blood rushing to my head. ‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘this is when she’ll pick up and rush outside to me. She loves me.’

            Her voicemail came on. It was a happy message, and even mentioned me by name. She said she loved me. But if she indeed loved me, why was she not out here for me to effortlessly take her back?

            The years we had been together meant nothing anymore. I had forgiven her so many times before, but it wasn’t going to happen now. I should have been there for her. I led her to cheating. It was all my fault.

            “Hey, it’s me,” I started, shakily. “I just want you to know that I love you.” I picked up the blade again, balancing the phone on my shoulder. “I love you so damn much.” My breath caught in my throat. This was it.

            I slid the razor horizontally across my wrist, hard and deep. I inhaled sharply. “It’s not your fault.” Lie. “It’s all mine. It always is.” Lie. “I just wanted you to know.” My breath was coming in hard gasps by the time I closed the phone. This was it.

            Lying back, I spread my arms out to either side of my frail body and let the razor slip onto the driveway. The concrete was cold, but the blood warmed my fingertips. I closed my eyes, her image burned into my eyelids.