The knife went in so much easier than I’d expected. A little force to make the initial puncture, an almost indiscernible “pop”, and then it just slid in right to the hilt.

It didn’t hurt at all. I suppose my shock that she actually did it, combined with the nervous system’s natural delayed reaction, blocked any pain. Like when you slice your finger and it doesn’t hurt until you see the first drop of blood.

“I warned you,” she hissed. A ribbon of crimson flew out of my chest and I passed out.

Two days later and I’m in Mercy Hospital, just released from ICU. She punctured my lung, but the surgeon says I’ll be fine. Could have been worse. And the morphine is nice.

She kept saying my snoring was driving her mad. We joked that she was crazy long before she met me, but that was all in the past. She had been a cutter in college. She swore she’d been taking her meds.

I got a note from her yesterday. She’s three floors below me, in the psych ward.

“The girl in the bed next to me doesn’t snore,” she wrote. “I can’t sleep for the silence.”