I chipped away at the dried blood that was shed from the cut on my wrist. The sirens of a passing ambulance filled my eardrums and I looked around at the people rushing pass without a glance towards me. I liked it like that. No one to pay attention to me, no one to ask, “Are you okay?” and no one to lie to saying, “I’m great.”

I took my phone out checking the time. 4:17 am. It’s been two hours since I freaked out about the blood that was rushing out from the first cut I made, and ran out the front door. I poked at the cut some more until I felt a warm presence on my cheeks, which quickly turned cold from the freezing February air.

The wind started to blow softly and lifted my hair in the air. A sense of relief washed over me. I closed my eyes and slowly started to unzip my jacket. I wanted the icy, wintry air to reach every crook of my body. The wind speared in and wrapped around me.

It prickled through my skin and sunk down into my quivering bones. An alarm went up in my head screaming, “Put your jacket back on! You are going to get hypothermia and die!” But I kept a hold on the zipper till my jacket started to fly in two flaps. The wind caressed my face, and water continued to escape from my cocoa eyes, and at this point I wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or the arctic wind. 

My nose started to run as another bitter, ruthless gust of air attacked me. I felt my body starting to go numb and I opened my eyes. I never felt more alive.