To have cried to such an extent that her tear supplies had gone dry, and now only remained that red, scorched trail streaked across her cheeks, you would think she had something bad happen to her, right?

But so was not the case.

Katherine had this weird disorder where she had no control over her tears, and it was killing her. More so than ever, it was killing her right now. She had no energy left to move, to breath: all of it had spent itself on making tears on short notice and then gushing them out from the corners of her eyes. She could not see. When the devilish conduits opened, they blinded her. She wanted to move, but with that absence of energy and sight, she could not very well move very much, now, could she?

So, Katherine sat where she sat (in pale moonlight that she could not see but feel on her skin) and hoped for this bout to end. When would it end (if it would end, at all, that is), she did not know. What she knew was that this outburst, just like always, was painful and sporadic.

And yes, after the tears ran out, and after the workers inside her body had given up, they would just attach a direct line of, say, an artery, to her lacrimal duct and let blood out instead.

That’s when the real pain began. Oh, strap on to your seats, ladies and gents, oh, me, oh, my. And the pain would last. Even after she had wept and bled and it was all over, the pain lasted for a week after.

She had resorted to drinking blood direct from the blood bag, while once it had seemed to her an idea as wild and impossible-to-happen-in-real-life as the concept of the disease itself. But it was a Sunday today. No blood-bags in the refrigerator. She would have to wait till Monday–that’s when she’d go to the hospital for her morning shift. They had allowed her the weekends off, which was kind of generous of them but not that she did not deserve it–she had been nursing for thirty years now. She needed her weekends off.

How many missing blood-bags later will they start suspecting me, she had thought every time when she had stolen one. So far they’d not. So far so good.

But she could not see. Only move her hands frailly around. She was in the kitchen when the tear and blood barrage had burst open, and now she sat on the floor, with a sizeable pool of orange liquid around her on the cold marble floor. Some of it was even piss.

One of her hands found its way crawling up the kitchen shelf to that place where she kept her knives. Close by. With her blood-tears now searing across her face, stopping by for a moment in one of the many creases to rest in their downward journey, she found the knife-holder with that weak hand that had gone up the shelf.

Clung! Clatter! The holder slipped, and from it the knives, and one of them lodged itself in her thigh. She screamed at the pain, but soon it won’t matter, any of it: not her disease, not her Monday shift and her blood-stealing, not the rent that was two weeks overdue, and not knife in her thigh. Sooner than soon, she thought as she groped for that familiar handle with which she had cut many an onion and ham.

Bingo, there it was! She took it in her hands, and without so much as making a sound she slit her throat, albeit she did a really botched job of it, and fell to her side. Now, see, her throat was all done opened up, but like I said, it was a botched job. She was still breathing, still bleeding–but now from three places instead of one–and still very much alive. Thankfully, and this thankfully came from her own thought, her vocal cords were goners. She could not scream in those last moments. But alas, she could only wish that those were her last moments. They were not.

She would live for another fifteen years and would come to be known by Ripley’s Believe it Or Not as the Weeping Lady. She would try suicide again, but it would always fail, mysteriously.

Something needed her alive, needed her crying and bleeding.