I hear voices downstairs. Angry voices. It sounds like people are yelling. I look around me; the 2nd and 4th don’t seem so worried. But I am. I’m worried because I’m the third, still hanging on the wall.

Rivka comes into the room. She looks upset. She sits on her bed, rocks back and forth. After about five minutes, she gets up and starts to pace around the room. Eventually I hear her beautiful voice fill the air. “That’s it, Rivka,” I think, “Sing it out. Don’t hurt, just sing.” I’m proud of her. She’s singing with such emotion. As I watch I can see it in her eyes. And I watch the whole time from my spot on the wall.

Suddenly, Rivka looks at me. She looks at me and starts crying. She stops singing and just cries. I’m thinking, “No, baby. Please, I’m sorry!” I want to shout it to her. Shout it until she knows how much people love her. I want to hold her, tell her it’ll all be okay. But being me, I can’t.

Rivka sits on the floor, continuing to cry. She opens her knapsack. Oh no. This is what I was afraid of. She takes out the pair of sharp scissors that she’s hidden there for a while. She rolls up her sleeve, and the next moment I see red. Not a lot, but it’s there. Rivka’s lying on the floor. She’s half laughing, half crying. I feel so bad.

And I have to watch all of this. Why? Because Rivka never took me down. I am a date, November 3rd 2008, on the calendar that still hangs on the wall. I am the day when, two years ago, Rivka first cut herself. I wish she would stop.