My wife knows not to wake me, so she stands near my right shoulder, not whispering my name.

I don’t need a clock to tell me I shouldn’t be awake but squint my eyes at the dusty, green numbers on my clock anyway. She wants to talk, but she waits patiently until I am the one who reaches out to her.

“What do you need?” I ask, knowing I am conceding something without understanding what I have lost.

“I want you to look at this. I’m worried I cut too deep,” she says. She shines a spotlight onto her naked chest. I strain to uncross my sleepy eyes.

A clean, white bandage, covered with too much tape, sits below her left shoulder near her heart. Her calm demeanor and the lack of blood tell me there is no cause for alarm. My stomach flutters, host to one hundred butterflies, knowing she already knows this.

I pull air into my tight chest, bite down hard, grind my teeth and flex my jaw. “We made a plan for this. You said you would call the crisis line if you needed help.” Her wet cheek catches the light. I recognize that she is crying. I try to remember a time when tears were cause for alarm.

Sleep stalks me, beckoning with its promise. Three nights without rest. I specifically asked her not to wake me, but here we are anyway. I give in and let sleep catch me. I cannot resist its velvet tentacles, winding around my legs, anchoring me to the bed. Pulling me away from her.

”If you think it’s too deep, I will drive you to the ER but I am not going to look”, I say, slurring my words. I settle deeper into the mattress. Sacrificing our discussion for my common good.

I pray we are done.

The light is back.

My mouth throbs. I do not know how long my tongue has been trapped between my clenched teeth. I open my mouth to relieve the pressure. Pain explodes as blood rushes back into the deep indentations on my tongue.

She kneels before me, naked from the waist up, and lifts the dressing. It doesn’t matter what I say. Her want is bottomless.

Her eyes soften and her six foot frame folds inward. “Please, Rachel. Just one more time,” she whispers seductively.

“No. I’m not going to look. I am your wife, not your nurse,” I tell her in my best leave me alone, I’m serious kind of voice.

I close my eyes; my last possible defense. Am I sleeping or playing dead?

“Why are you being so mean to me?” She pleads. Calling me “mean” is her trump card—her Get Out of Jail Free card. She knows I will not fight back.

Her urgency spills between us. I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong. These are not my cuts.

She needs help.

We both do.

She’s here again.

Pulling me out of a deep sleep one more time.

Resistance is futile. She and I both know the hospital isn’t necessary. I should just give in, look and reassure her everything will be ok. It’s the only obvious choice if I want to get any sleep tonight.

I crawl out from under the warm covers and lean backward on my palms in a tripod pose. I stare at the unimpressive welt with a hairline scab on her chest. I tilt my head to accommodate a sleep-blurry eye and consider her.

The cutting is new for her. My only explanation is that she felt left out after my son and I had an honest discussion about self-harm—when I told him how I stopped using forks and candles as coping mechanisms in my twenties. I should have seen this sick competition coming when I saw her showing him his first initial carved into her forearm.

I stifle a yawn. I know not to speak too soon. If I answer too fast, I am not empathetic. If I don't look long enough, I don’t care. If I tell her I am running on empty it won’t matter.

Silent seconds pass as I feign interest in her half-hearted cut. I pretend to thoroughly evaluate her wound, sensing how she soaks up my attention. I know from experience the best strategy to shut this conversation down is to feign concern until I can’t anymore.

“I think it’s ok. We just need to keep an eye on it.” My compassion is hollow. She doesn’t notice.

“Thank you”, she says. “You always make me feel better.”

She retreats to her side of our bed. I sit on the edge of the bed until her breathing settles into a slow, even rhythm.

She wakes briefly and asks me to turn off the light because it’s keeping her awake.

I feel like something has been stolen from me but I’m not sure what is gone.

I bite my bruised tongue.

The pain reminds me: I am here. I am real. I matter.