Her heart started to beat faster every second because she was worried in case her sleeve suddenly rolled up unexpectedly, and all those selfish people will see everything she does or is doing, to herself. She can't let herself be embarrassed by them.
She hates it. Having to put on a fake smile every day. Every flipping day! Just so they won't notice how she's actually feeling. The world will never know. She doesn't want the world to know. It's too selfish, you know that, don't you?
And when she gets home she'll run straight up to the bathroom, locking it behind her, and you should know by now what she would do. If you don't, you haven't been paying much attention to her, have you?
"I'm scared" she would whisper into her teddy bear's ear, as if it could hear her, and make all her problems go away. But we all know that will never happen. She wished though. That teddy is the only person or thing, that would ever listen to her; no one else really bothers about her.
"I don't know what to do" she would cuddle up to it, so tight that if it was alive it would surely be strangled to death. There's no one else out there who can make it any better. But I guess it sounds weird hugging a teddy so you can make it all better. It never works, does it?
And then she would cry herself to sleep again like she did last night, and the night before, with the thick, red, liquid rolling down her arms and legs, not caring if it goes everywhere; she's used to it. The smell of it. The taste of it. The feel of it. The redness of it.
She's so used to it, that it doesn't even hurt her anymore; she can't feel any pain. And that makes her want to do it more and more because she knows it will never hurt her.
She's so used to it, it gets to the point that she doesn't even realize that that cut is deeper than the rest, because she couldn't care less about them. She only cared about one thing and one thing only. Death.
