" When I took a good look at myself, my stomach flipped. I was a jumble of bruises and ripped clothes. Most people said blood tasted metallic, but to me it tasted like ashes. It tasted like my own funeral. Bile rose in my throat, but I managed to keep it down. The spasms that made my ribcage expand and contract in an increasing tempo created a melody without interlude. I must be crying. I waited, not daring to move, for a long time to turn into a puddle on the floor. "

― , Broken Heart