Brooding, I tangle my fingers in my hair as I stare at the blinking cursor, and fiddle with the latch above my ear. Out of habit, I press the catch, and my head falls open with a pop. I drift over the familiar ridges of my mind, the bits I know so well of myself.
Absentmindedly, I play with the stitches I put in long ago, in a chunky, uneven line. I've gotten used to the thread there, how I fixed myself to be. I prefer it that way.
I pull gently on a loose end, and it gives. Caught by surprise, I keep pulling, letting them all unravel. Pain tears through my head as the last thread pulls out. Horrifyingly, it hasn't healed, just as ugly as I remembered. I grasp at the kinked and crusted thread, hiding it in my hands, and shove it deep into my pocket. Quickly, I latch my head shut again, and try to pretend nothing happened.
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