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He looks at me, smiles.

Yes, I guess you would.

He leans over and he opens his dresser and he withdraws a pair of small, shiny nail clippers. He hands them to me.

Thanks, Warren.

I walk back to the Bathroom. The steam has dissipated and the mirror is clean. I walk over to it and I look at the stitches around my gash. They are black and crusty and they look like barbed wire. I want them gone. I am tired of looking like Frankenstein. If I pull them out the scar will be worse, but I don’t mind scars and another scar isn’t going to hurt me.

I set the clippers on the white porcelain of the sink and I turn on the hot water and I grab some toilet paper and I wet it and I start wiping the dried blood off the stitches. They need to be clean to come out, need to be free of the crust so that they will slide through their entry points without tearing new and larger holes. I have made the mistake of not cleaning stitches properly before and the results were less than pleasant, so I take my time with these. I wet the paper, dab, repeat. Wet, dab, repeat. Wet, dab, repeat. When the scabs receive the water they become blood and the blood smears across my chin and my cheek. I leave it on my cheek because there is more work to be done.

After about ten dabs, the stitches are clean. I pick up the clippers and I open them and I start cutting. There are twelve on the outer gash and they come apart easily and without a problem. When they are cut, I pull them out. The entry points are clean and there is little blood. The scar will be visible, but it won’t be bad. A small half circle on the side of my face. Another reminder of the life I live. There is more work to be done.

I pull down my lower lip. The cuts are worse and they have not healed as well. The constant exposure to spit and food and movement of my mouth and the activity at the Dentist’s office has prevented the stitches from doing their job properly. At this point, they are useless.

I look for the stitch that is closest to the flesh. It is in the lower corner of my mouth, near the base of my gum. As I hold my lip with one hand, I use my other hand to bring the clipper down and in and I insert the blade between the flesh and the stitch and I squeeze the clipper and the stitch snaps and I wince and a small trickle of blood starts to flow from the entry points of the thread. I move methodically through the rest of twenty-nine stitches within my mouth. When I am done cutting, I pull the stitches out and the flow of blood from the entry points fills my mouth and I turn on the cold water and I take a sip of it and I flush it through my mouth and I spit it out. The sink is bright pink, there is red smeared across my face, the remnants of the stitches lie on the side of the porcelain and the clippers are in my hand. I am in pain, but not much.

The Bathroom door opens and I turn around and the Bald Man walks in and he sees me and he falls to his knees and starts screaming he’s killing himself, he’s killing himself and I can hear commotion and the door flies open and Warren rushes into the Bathroom.

What are you doing?

I’m taking out my stitches.

Warren walks toward me. The Bald Man crawls toward the toilet.

You said you weren’t going to hurt yourself.

I didn’t.

It looks like you did.

I didn’t.

You should have let a Doctor do that.

I’ve done it before, it’s not a big deal.

The Bald Man starts vomiting. Warren walks over to him and he kneels next to him. I reach for some paper and I wet it and I wipe my face. I finish and I toss the bloody tissue into the garbage and I walk over to the toilet and I watch the Bald Man vomit. Although part of me wants to laugh, I don’t want to make the Bald Man feel any worse than I’ve already made him feel. When he stops retching, I speak.

I’m sorry.

He looks up at me, wipes his face.

I didn’t mean to upset you.

You’re sick.

I don’t respond.

You’re a sick, sick person.

I don’t respond because he’s right. I’m a sick, sick