Naomi

Chapter One.

I sat down on my  bed, gazing down at my hands, tears running across  my cheeks. I sobbed quietly to myself. I was frail and pathetic. What was the point in me being here? What was the point in any of this? Would anyone miss me if I left? Would anyone even shed a tear? Was I even wanted?

I knew I sure as hell wouldn't miss this, the only thing the world had to offer me was a cold and cruel existence. I wasn't one of those girls. I don't fit in, I'm alone. I'm not loved by many, I'm hardly loved at all. And I surely wasn't winning any popularity contest any time soon.

My eyes began to sting as if a cat were clawing my eyes from their sockets, but I no longer cared. I deserved this pain. Everything I was feeling and experiencing, I deserved it all. I didn't deserve happiness, what did I ever do to think for a second I could be happy? I only deserve the worst pain life has to offer. I deserve the worst form of punishment Lucifer has to offer....  that name made me shutter... Lucifer.

I catch the sound of my mum's car pulling into the driveway, I quickly rush into the bathroom locking the door behind me and turn on the shower. I stand in front of the mirror. Looking into my red puffy eyes, I watched the tears spill out freely and down my pale skin. My eyes bloodshot with pain, and my pupils were wide.

I sighed. When did I become so weak? Fragile? Insecure? Depressed? Miserable? It seems as if that's all I've ever known. The pain has been with me for so long, that I no longer remember a time where I was truly happy, come to think of it I don't actually think I've experienced happiness before.

I stripped out of my school uniform, I threw the white blouse and navy skirt into the corner angrily. I wanted to scream, I wanted to feel my lungs burning because I'd screamed so much. Anger was all I felt lately, not the pain, not the sorrow. Just pure anger, and it was all towards myself.

I opened the basin cabinet and pulled out a razor. I took one last prolonged look in the mirror before I sat, my back against the shower door, and began cutting.

It was always on my hips or upper thighs, I knew how to hide those.

I gave myself five wounds before getting into the shower, leaving the razor in the basin.

Hot water rushed over my skin and into my fresh cuts. I stood completely still, not gasping or groaning, as a stinging sensation filled my body. I deserved the pain that I was getting and I was going to endure every part of my punishment.

A punishment, that's all it was, I was punishing myself for being so weak. Or at least that's what I told myself.

I washed my hair and body prior to stepping out and wrapping a dark purple towel around my body. I went back to the cupboard, grabbing out some plasters. I plastered up the two cuts on either of my thighs, and the three cuts on my hips.

I cleaned the blood off of the razor before hiding it among the trash bin in my room.

I got dressed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a loose blue jumper. Going back into the bathroom, I swiftly dried my hair.

I took a long glance in the mirror. My left hand trailed across the scar going along my left cheek. Tears filled my eyes. I pushed the memory out of my mind as i heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"Honey, dinner's ready." My mum said opening the bathroom door. My mum was roughly 5'3 with green eyes and brunette hair. She looked to be in her later twenties rather than than her early forties.

I nodded at her in response and followed her into the kitchen. Mum handed me a plate of mac 'n cheese with a side salad. I smiled at her before heading into the living room.

My younger brother sat on the floor right in front of the T.V, eating his dinner at a very fast pace.

I took a seat on the couch in the corner. I pushed the food around my plate. I wasn't hungry, or maybe I was so hungry that I just didn't feel hungry. I don't know anymore. The food smelt and looked really good, it was my mums cooking after all. But I just couldn't stomach anything. I would pretend to eat the occasional bite, just to make my mum happy, but it wasn't real.

I couldn't help but wonder if my mum had caught onto what I was doing, that I would only pretend to eat, but she never said a word to me about it. She would always smile at me, trying to get me to smile back. I knew she worried, I could see it in her eyes, but she never dared to  talk about it. 

When I was younger it was always 'When you're ready to talk, I'm here' or something along those lines. I'm also, in a way, glad she didn't ask why I wasn't eating or why I wasn't all that happy. I don't think I'd be able to tell her, how would one tell another the reasons for everything?

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