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To my family,

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Dear XXXXXXXX,
I’m sorry, sorry for everything I’m putting you through. I know you weren’t expecting this. I guess you thought I was alright. I‘m not alright, I’m nowhere near it. I don’t think I ever was.
Every day’s the same. I wake up at the same time. Eat the same breakfast. Walk the same route to school. Dodge glares on the way to homeroom. I shimmy through the corridors in between periods: head down clutching books I don’t even needed like a sheet of aluminium deflecting the whispers.
And at lunch, I sit by myself on my own little table, dropping my food on the floor for the rats. I don’t deserve food. The same thing happened the days before, and after. My so called ‘friends’ don’t want to be seen with me, it’s bad for their “reputations”, they told me themselves.
When I get home, I cut. I can control the razor. How deep it pierces my flesh. How much blood oozes from my skin. The pain. I guess it’s kind of like an addiction. An addiction to the realise of tensions building up inside. And after a while, it became part of ‘the routine’.
Today when I woke up, I don’t see the point of getting up, in living anymore; it’s never getting better than this. I told you I was sick, I had a flue, a stomach ace. That was a lie. I waited till you were all gone, to work and school. After mum looked the door, I slipped out of bed. Found the pen and paper to write this letter to my family. I know how I’ll do it, with my razor.
I want you to know It’s not your fault, none of this was.
I’m sorry, Mia



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