Red Wires

Like wires in the sky, her cuts overlap, running up and down her thighs in every direction.
It's mad, like New York City on a Friday night.
I asked her once to stop, and she said, "Hold your breath."
Her eyes shone, but dying light, really. Like a light-bulb that's about to flickerflicker out.
"Please," I said. She opened her mouth, inhaled, then stopped breathing altogether.
The grey walls behind her reflected her solemn manner, and I had to think back to when she'd painted them a year ago. She took down the millions of photographs that lined her walls and painted until nothing was visible. Slowly, things disappeared from her room. Her desk, her tv, her bookshelves... Even her cat stopped coming in.
She frowned, and breathed in finally, not really whole-heartedly, though.
"Can you hold your breath your whole life?" she asked. I didn't answer. "Neither can I."