So, I pulled out a knife in the middle of her verbal assualt. A SOG multi-tool, like a Leatherman. One of those new-wave swiss army things with tools and pliers and shit. Anyway, it had this super sharp serrated blade, which I calmy extracted. By now her yelling had quieted, I think. I don't remember. I didn't have a shirt on, and I cut my stomach, which hurt and didn't really do anything immediately, so I got even more distressed and cut my left arm. Much harder. Arms cut easier than stomachs, for the record.
Then, the fight was over. I was crying. She left to find bandaids or something. I took off the rest of my clothes and climed into the wardrobe where my friend found me sometime later, huddled, covered in blood wearing boxers and a tanker helmet. He was expecting to find a body. Kylie's I guess. We talked normally for a minute, sorta laughed and then he closed the door and took off.
The bleeding wouldn't stop, so I went to a Czech hospital where the doctor and I shared no common languages. They stitched me up in an archaic room. The nurse splashed blood and hydrogen peroxide into the doctor's eye at one point. Everyone just laughed. Nobody ran off to rinse out the AIDS an American doctor would have assumed I had. It cost $60 USD, which I had to pay at the Post Office. 7 stitches. Kind of inadequate, but it held together.
This is the only pic from then that I have. I'm holding a can of Micheal Jackson energy drink. No shit, they really used to sell such a thing. I know the quality sucks, such was the state of digital imagery in 1997.