Her room was plastered with posters of teen heartthrobs, adorned with photographs of family and friends, and covered in pink wallpaper. It was the epitome of a teenage girl’s room; however, under the exterior of its idealness, it housed her dark secret.
Her alarm rang and she quickly threw the covers off her limp body. She stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Looking into the mirror, she eyed her reflection closely. A wave of disgust began to embrace her. She quickly darted her hazel eyes from the glass and sat down on the toilet. The girl reached behind the shower curtain and grabbed a razor. She ran the razor’s blade on the inside of her wrist. Blood seeped from the cut — the cut was like an open heart— it brooded with great emotion. She watched the blood as it rushed off her arm and dropped on the white tile floor. It was an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction; believing that cutting her skin would terminate the deep pain inside her. She let it bleed out, and then ran her wrist under the faucet. She grabbed a roll of gauze from the bottom drawer of the vanity and wrapped the material around her wrist until it covered the damage. She threw the gauze back in the drawer and walked out of the bathroom. She grabbed her bra off the beige carpet and tugged it over her breasts. The girl harshly secured the bra’s clasp—unfazed that it was pinching her skin. She grabbed her jeans from the dresser drawer and pulled them on over her hips, then picked a grey sweater off the floor—neglecting the stain of last morning’s coffee—and pulled it on over her head. She put on a pair of mismatched socks and then walked out of her room. The room seemed perfect for countless gossip sessions and pinky-swearing promises. Now, the room only housed the girl’s secret.
As she entered the kitchen, her father looked up from his paper. “Good morning,” he said. She gave him a weak smile and walked to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. She inhaled the steam emanating from the mug and then brought it to her chapped lips. She drank the liquid slowly, savoring each sip, letting it burn her throat. She put the mug down, glanced at the clock, then grabbed her messenger bag from the kitchen table and started walking to the back door— not noticing that her sleeve had rolled up and exposed the gauze. “What’s that wrapped around your wrist?” Her mother snapped as she walked into the kitchen. The girl quickly grabbed her sleeve and curled it under her fingers. “It’s nothing,” she said. She grasped the brass door handle—careful not to let her sleeve ride up and expose her vice— and ran out of the house. The door slammed behind her. The noise startled the girl and brought her into reality— she knew her secret would soon unravel.