" His scar?” My skirt was heavy with blood, pooled between my thighs, seeping slowly through the cotton. It tickled when it dripped onto my skin, into my pubic hair, over the labia. I was not wearing underwear. You remember. “He never would tell me.”
“That fucking Malloy.” He laughed. “He ruptured his appendix when he was a kid.”
My hand over my chest, the blood finding its way between my closed fingers, my ribs light in my warm hand, my breast lighter without the rose nipple to give it weight, to give it meaning.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
It was difficult to move my head. “All right,” I said. “It’s all right "

― Susanna Moore , In the Cut