When I wake up I grab the iPod I fell asleep listening to. Island of the misfit boy is playing. My favorite song by him right now. Checking the time, I know my internal alarm clock is still working 5:30 exactly. I pull on some skinny jeans and a Sleeping With Sirens tee-shirt with some boots. I pull on my moms old black hoodie, to hide the words etched into my arms like tattoos.
The latest addition written right across my wrist is the word "whore". This is what happens when I'm called any sort of name. The only other ones are "slut", written across my radial artery. Along with the phrase "your mother's death was your fault" on my cephalic artery. They just appear. I'm not called names by anyone except my father. But only the words that bother me are carefully placed on my arm. They look as though they are tattoos in perfect font.
This has happened ever since I was thirteen. No one knows anything about it. Not even my best friend, Lindsy. I put on my necklace that I wear every single day. It keeps my panic attacks away. Besides, it was a gift from Lindsy. I grab my keys to my car and my house, and sadly enough, my room. As I quietly open the door and lock it from behind, I'm careful to step around all the broken bottles.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs. All of a sudden everything in front of me is cleaned up. The lights are on. There's a smell coming from the kitchen. It smells so sweet, like my mother's waffles and coffee used to.. I try to walk but I feel paralyzed. Then everything's gone. I feel myself falling but there's nothing I can do. There's a sharp pain in my thigh, but I don't feel it until I feel my eyesight focus. I reach down to touch it and there's thick blood. I limp into the kitchen to get a large Band-Aid and wash it out. Once I've done that I quickly sew up my pants and hurry out the front door, not bothering to be quiet anymore, knowing I've probably already woken them up. Once in my car I drive off to the highschool.
