I close the journal, and sit up from my comfortable position on my bed. I look
down at the butterfly comforter, on top of the pink bed sheet. I remember
when I chose those. I was 5. But now I'm Fourteen. And things change. I'm
not the same little girl who loved ponies and played princess games with my mom and dad.
Dad.
A tear slides down my cheek as a memory I'd been trying to forget climbs out the
hole I put it in. I no longer had a father. He died over 3 years ago. And I don't really have much of a mother anymore. Ever since Dad died, she's been going out to party every night, and the earliest she's ever gotten back was at midnight. And she's always drunk, so it's not like I look forward to seeing her when she gets back. I snap away from my thoughts, and look at the red alarm clock on my beside stand. 11:30. So mom should be back soon. Great. I get up and walk to my closet. I open the door and dig through bunches of clothes until I find my special box. In my special box was something you'd never expect a fourteen-year-old girl to have: Knives. I opened my box and took out a knife. This one was the sharpest. I closed my box, and reburied it. I closed my closet door and walked down the hallway. I took a right turn and walked into the bathroom. I locked the door and sat down on the floor in a corner. I hold the knife tightly as I bring it down to my forearm. I make a small cut. Pain surges through my body. I know it should be hurtful pain, but it felt good. I look down at the rest of my arm. Scars. All over. "I deserve this..." I say to myself. "I hate my life. It's for the best." I brought the knife down once again, making a big cut. The blood welled up and dripped down my arm. I smiled. I liked it.