[ WP ] All those nicks and bruises that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are injuries received by your soulmate .

Sorry the reply is late! 
 
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 When they first started to appear, I was scared. 
 I was absolutely *terrified. * 
 
 Each day was spent examining my body in front of the grimy apartment mirror I never took the time to clean, tracing my stubby fingers over the faint lines on my arm. 
 
 But I didn ’ t do it, and that was the hardest thing to explain to people, when they think that you ’ re just going crazy and you try to insist that *they ’ re not yours and that last Monday morning you woke up and they were there*. 
 For some reason, they don ’ t seem to believe you. 
 
 When I arrived home from work and stared back at my horrified reflection in the bathroom, the rope burns around my neck looked even more prominent against my pale skin, the dim light of the room spilling down on me in flickering shadows. 
 
 On the morning I woke up to a slap across my cheek, written in flaming, five-fingered red, I didn ’ t go to work that day. 
 Instead, karma was a bitch, and in return I slammed my head on the shelf above my bed when I sat up, earning myself a large, shining bruise on my forehead. Later, I received a small scratch dribbling inky red blood, just under my chin, a gift from the kitchen cabinets. 
 
 I didn ’ t go to work the next day, either. 
 I went out, to the sprawling mess of a shopping centre just near my house to buy the food I so desperately needed, and that ’ s when I saw her. 
 
 A lumpy, protruding bruise just above her eyebrow. 
 A freshly healing scab, shadowed by her hair. 
 Collar turned up, half-concealing the ring of burns around her neck. 
 
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 She got better, eventually. 
 
 I took her out to a café that afternoon. 
 We exchanged numbers over black coffee, the aroma swirling in the air and steam curling around our heads in smoky, curling patterns. 
 
 We ended up moving in together, her shifting her sparse possessions to my apartment, and in turn she made me better as well. 
 She helped with cooking. She helped with cleaning. 
 She helped me drag my pathetic life out of the dump and fix it, and I helped her too. 
 
 But in the end, that ’ s all we really were. 
 Two lonely fuck-ups clinging on to each other, gasping in the other ’ s air like it ’ s the last breath we ’ d ever take. 
 
 The marks ceased to appear, though. 
 The cuts faded over time, and after three months the scars were barely noticeable at all. Hers did as well, and it was like a connection. We got better together. 
 
 But at work today, a deep, deep gash appeared on my wrist, slashed diagonally downwards across the lumpy blue vein bulging under my skin. 
 My throat ’ s hurting now, and my wrist *just won ’ t stop bleeding and my skin is turning pasty white now and my heart ’ s beating faster than it ever has* 
 
 And I ’ m terrified to go home. 
 

