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" When I saw Mike, bloodied and bruised, holding a broken beer bottle inches from my throat, I assumed he meant to cause some bodily harm. What I didn&amp;#039;t realize at the time, however, is that the harm was not directed at me. I reacted like any terrified person would, kicking him in the groin, then tossing him off me. He fell to the ground with a thud, and I grabbed the lamp from the side of the bed to use as a weapon.  &amp;quot;What the hell are you doing?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Help me,&amp;quot; he said weakly.  I saw blood on my hands, but I didn&amp;#039;t feel any pain. Was my adrenaline pumping so hard that I was numb? The broken bottle was spinning on the ground. I picked it up and found more blood along its edges. On the other side of the bed, I could hear Mike breathing heavily, almost like he was choking. Dropping the bottle, I ran toward him. I remember seeing the blood streak on my comforter tracing a line to his body. Did I do that? Had I stabbed him? At that point, anything was possible \u2014 I&amp;#039;d just woken up from deep sleep. Things were unfolding like a terrible dream.  But it was anything but. As soon as I saw Mike&amp;#039;s blood-stained wrists, I knew what had happened.  &amp;quot;Mike!&amp;quot; I screamed.  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. What have you done? What have I done?  I lifted him up in my arms and raced toward the door, the salty smell of fresh blood filling my nose. Mike looked up at me. &amp;quot;I screwed up, bro,&amp;quot; he said.  The hospital was a 10-minute drive, but it felt like three hours, as I used one hand to drive and the other to put pressure on Mike&amp;#039;s wrist. When we got there, Mike was passed out. I dragged him into the ER. A nurse and an orderly came running out. They spoke quickly and urgently, bombarding me with a million questions. Their expressions told me this was more serious that I&amp;#039;d even thought. For the first time, it occurred to me that Mike might die.  I called Becky, who was out the door before I could even finish. We stayed on the phone for an hour, as she drove down, trying to calm me down and talk me off the ledge. Overwhelming feelings of guilt were giving me dark thoughts. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s all my fault,&amp;quot; I told her again and again. &amp;quot;I did this!&amp;quot;  Becky arrived at the hospital in record time. As soon as I saw her, I collapsed into her arms. She kept telling me everything would be all right. But I was in such a state of shock, remorse, pain, self-hate \u2014 name your desperate emotion \u2014 that I didn&amp;#039;t hear her.  Eventually, a doctor appeared. He had a grim look on his face that sent an extra-large Freezie through my veins.  &amp;quot;Mr. Randle?&amp;quot; he said.  I opened up my mouth but couldn&amp;#039;t speak. Becky stepped forward.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m Mike&amp;#039;s sister. How is he, Doctor?&amp;quot;  I&amp;#039;m too tired to write anymore. Just reliving this is too hard to bear. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/mens-perspective/a2070/diary-he-092007/>