The Little Blonde Girl

Where There's Smoke

No one said life was easy, and if they did they're a big fat liar. I'm a pretty good liar I can make anyone beleive what I say, but thats because I don't usually talk I just observe. I can see what people do when they lie and I simply don't do it. Smile nod and never lose eye contact, thats the key to a good lie. I know all of this because from a young age I realized "I'm fine" is never convincing to anyone.

My step mom Ella has been around since I was nine, my mom bailed when I was born and my dad died just after my fourteenth birthday last year.

At forty-six years old my dad died from a house fire, the fire started around eleven at night, I don't even remember it starting. The only memory I have of that night is waking up in the hospital and being told that I had lost the only person who has ever cared about me.

School was bad before, I've always been bullied, but after my dad died the kids at school started saying I started the fire, and I killed my father.

I've never been a people person but after that, I just gave up trying to make friends.

Ella blames me too, the only reason she kept me is so I can take care of the house while she's off bar jumping getting drunk with her friends.

She's usually not around but when she is I wish she wasn't she doesn't really talk to me unless she wants something, and she certainly doesn't care about my safety. She never tells me where she's going or when she's coming back but every time she walks out the door a weight is lifted off of my shoulders.

As I make my way down the stairs I realize Ella is home, and my day all of a sudden gets worse. When I round the corner at the bottom of the stairs Ella glances up at me then continues to mix her drink at the kitchen counter. As I walk up beside her to the fridge and pour a cup of chocolate milk. I glance at her and murmur "its seven am" I walk past her and open the fridge when she growls "well if it wasn't for you I wouldn't need to drink".

Hurt by the comment I walk away and slowly climb the stairs, leaving my chocolate milk, and tears beginning to burn in my eyes, crying in front of Ella Is one of the many things I will never do. She doesn't deserve to know how much her words hurt me.

Angry and tears now streaming down my face I go into my room and get my scissors. I started this just after my dad died and the kids at school started calling me a murderer.

I cross the hall to the bathroom on the top floor and lock the door behind me.

The first time was the worst. It was after dad's funeral and Ella was yelling at me telling me it was my fault he was dead, she was throwing things at me and crying, so I locked myself in the bathroom for three hours until the smashing against the door stopped. I was terrified and hurt and saw no way out. So I picked up my school scissors and pulled the blade across my skin. The blood ran down my arm and hit the floor. I cut my arm repeatedly until I fell asleep in a pool of blood on the floor, scissors in hand.

After the first cut I became addicted, it was like a drug. Every time I stand at the sink with my scissors I think of that day and I blame Ella.

I watched the blade open the skin under it that was already covered in scars. I made about 20 cuts along my arm, and as always, for my dad, i carved a dripping red flame into the under side of my wrist.