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Description
I walk past my mirror. I turn, stop and stare.
Too much fat here, not enough there. Acne. Messy, awful hair. Dark circles under each eye - they're starting to look like bruises. Hasn't anyone noticed them yet?
I throw my blanket over the mirror. I hate mirrors. Hate my reflection.
I resume my pacing. I can't think straight anymore - everything whirls around my head, builds higher and higher, until it all comes crashing back down, and one of my poor, beloved friends is left trying to calm me down over MSN.
MSN. Evil. They blocked me on MSN.
I flop down on my bed with a sigh. I stare at my left arm and the tops of my legs, sliding up my PJ pants so I can see them. One, two, three...I keep counting until I get to thirty-four. Thirty four scars.
Too many scars. Not enough scars. I stare at the pocketknife hidden under my plushies, chewing my lip. No. Don't. My eyes drift to my desk, where a pair of scissors sits innocently. No.
I leap back up, digging through my school bag. I need my science book. Where the hell is my science book?
The bookshelf. I seize it, flicking through page after page until I reach the centre. One side, unfinished schoolwork. The other, the lyrics to Grenade, by Bruno Mars. I love that song. I loved that lesson. So much fun. Until she spoke.
I turn the page once more. There. Written in bright red pen, here it is; the List. The List of everything they've said to me so far - every little insult and cruel little comment. I have a plan. A beautiful plan. An evil plan. An ugly, horrible, terrible plan.
Don't think about the plan.
I throw the book across the room and sit, head in my hands. What is happening here? Why is it happening? I don't know. I don't want to know - the answer will shatter what little of me hasn't been shattered.
My eyes go back to the science book. I stand, walk over and pick it up. I go back to the red-pen page and start counting.
Twelve.
Well, I have until December, I remind myself. And I only just started the List. I will continue the List and follow the plan. Besides - what if I were to change my mind?
This is why I like my plan. It gives me options. Many options.
The plan, simply, is this: I will write everything that is said about me. Everything that hurts.
And once December comes, I am going to count them. Then I will take my knife and make a cut for every one. Depending on how deep each cut goes will depend on how much the comment hurt me.
And maybe - just maybe - it will be enough to kill myself.

Description
I walk past my mirror. I turn, stop and stare.
Too much fat here, not enough there. Acne. Messy, awful hair. Dark circles under each eye - they're starting to look like bruises. Hasn't anyone noticed them yet?
I throw my blanket over the mirror. I hate mirrors. Hate my reflection.
I resume my pacing. I can't think straight anymore - everything whirls around my head, builds higher and higher, until it all comes crashing back down, and one of my poor, beloved friends is left trying to calm me down over MSN.
MSN. Evil. They blocked me on MSN.
I flop down on my bed with a sigh. I stare at my left arm and the tops of my legs, sliding up my PJ pants so I can see them. One, two, three...I keep counting until I get to thirty-four. Thirty four scars.
Too many scars. Not enough scars. I stare at the pocketknife hidden under my plushies, chewing my lip. No. Don't. My eyes drift to my desk, where a pair of scissors sits innocently. No.
I leap back up, digging through my school bag. I need my science book. Where the hell is my science book?
The bookshelf. I seize it, flicking through page after page until I reach the centre. One side, unfinished schoolwork. The other, the lyrics to Grenade, by Bruno Mars. I love that song. I loved that lesson. So much fun. Until she spoke.
I turn the page once more. There. Written in bright red pen, here it is; the List. The List of everything they've said to me so far - every little insult and cruel little comment. I have a plan. A beautiful plan. An evil plan. An ugly, horrible, terrible plan.
Don't think about the plan.
I throw the book across the room and sit, head in my hands. What is happening here? Why is it happening? I don't know. I don't want to know - the answer will shatter what little of me hasn't been shattered.
My eyes go back to the science book. I stand, walk over and pick it up. I go back to the red-pen page and start counting.
Twelve.
Well, I have until December, I remind myself. And I only just started the List. I will continue the List and follow the plan. Besides - what if I were to change my mind?
This is why I like my plan. It gives me options. Many options.
The plan, simply, is this: I will write everything that is said about me. Everything that hurts.
And once December comes, I am going to count them. Then I will take my knife and make a cut for every one. Depending on how deep each cut goes will depend on how much the comment hurt me.
And maybe - just maybe - it will be enough to kill myself.