I remember the first time it happened.
Sarah and I were arguing, again. I don't even remember what we were arguing about, something trivial. I just remember feeling so misunderstood and belittled. All Sarah seemed to want was to beat me down mentally.
That's when it happened: a piece of flesh the size of a postage stamp just fell off my forearm. It didn't even hurt.
We went to the hospital, of course, but the wound had already healed over. The doctor was baffled. He sent us off with instructions to monitor the spot for any evidence of necrosis and to let him know if it happened again.
And it did. It happened over and over and over, every time we argued. Every time it felt like Sarah was whittling me away, my body reflected the damage.
I could have left, I suppose. But every time, Sarah swore she'd change, she'd be more careful. Every time, she reminded me of the years we'd been together, the good memories.
Every time, until I couldn't have left if I wanted to. I no longer had any arms or legs, you see.
Even then, somehow we still managed to find things to argue about.
We can't argue anymore, though. She threw my mouth away when it fell off. I see her sometimes when she opens the dresser drawer where she keeps my eye.
And of course, I always hear her. She keeps my ear in her purse so I always have to listen.