It was clear that she was upset with life. The writing on her arms was enough. People didn’t care. They didn’t read. Neither did the teachers. They never took the time to read it. They thought she was just another kid who would have her friends write on her. Expect for the fact she didn’t have friends. Then who would write on her? They wondered. The bullies? They wouldn’t take the risk. Surely it wasn’t herself, they scoffed. They assumed she wanted attention. They didn’t know that she couldn’t stand it any longer. The negative attention. The attention form her dad, played those “games” with her when he was drunk, which was most of the time. The attention from her mother, who pointed out her every flaw. She had asked for help but had been rejected. She wouldn’t stoop so low as to pick up the knife. Writing would do, she had always thought. Then she did stoop as low as to pick up the knife. The tears salty in her mouth, she dragged it. Up and down her arms, wherever skin was free. The warm blood running down her arms, and dripping on her clothes. She cut almost everywhere on the length of her arms. There would be scarring. But she was already scarred. The routine continued. The cuts, then writing to hide it. She wrote anything, novels poems, or just plain gibberish. All over her arms. To cover the scars. The one day she had planned on killing herself, help arrived. A teacher was brave enough, and ventured over to her. The teacher asked if she was feeling all right. The girls hopeless eyes looking up at her was enough to answer all the questions.
——
good? bad?