Frankie Jones pushed a finger through the wallpaper in her bedroom, creating the first of what would become thirteen holes, one for each year of her life. She’d hesitated, once again, in the dark, wanting—but also not wanting—to know what would happen if she pushed hard enough.

Both paper and wall gave in to her touch; the hole, a hungry mouth, and the ugly striped wallpaper tearing open like lips. Hidden beyond, she knew, were razor-sharp teeth daring to clamp down, and a throat wanting to taste her.

Let go, she told the wall, and the wall let go.

Her knuckle stuck, and for a moment Frankie panicked, imagining some sort of rescue crew being called out in the middle of the night to set her free, or perhaps to reattach a finger.

Ruined, she thought, meaning the wall.

A single ray of yellowish light shone through the hole she’d created, as if a candle burned somewhere on the other side. Scars on Frankie Jones’ wrists illuminated pink against her dark-brown skin: three parallel lines.

The light, a reminder of what she’d done, both now and then.