“Scars crossed her welded wrists.”

“As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories.”

“I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.”

“I stopped. She was bleeding after all. Perfect lines crossed her wrists, not near any crucial veins, but enough to leave wet red tracks across her skin. She hadn;t hit her veins when she did this; death hadn't been her goal.”

“And if you had no tongue, no celebrating language, you’d do this: cross your hands at the wrist with palms facing towards you; place your crossed wrists over your heart (the middle of your chest, anyway); then move your hands outwards a short distance, and open them towards the object of your love. It’s just as eloquent as speech.”

“He closed his hand around my wrist and pressed my hand flat against his chest. “The way I see it, Elle, scars are proof we can survive.”