Floyd Wilkinson had made suicide attempts a routine.

Blood was everywhere, and his body was covered in scars of varying depths.

These were self-inflicted wounds he made while apologizing, whenever he suffered from headaches.

I looked at these horrific marks but could only find it amusing.

We had skilled physicians in the infirmary who wouldn't let him die easily.

"Joan, falling from the sky and hitting the ground must hurt, right?"

His eyes were somewhat lost, but he suddenly focused intently in my direction, as if trying to confirm something.

I didn't know if he could see me, but he disgusted me.

"It must hurt a lot; otherwise, why would...