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| torn edges |

There are points in all our lives when we feel broken.

Broken.

Helpless

Miserable.

And even though most of these things usually pass away, when they are there, they feel horrible. Like someone has cast a black cloud over your head, and no matter what you do, it won't go away.

Rue had experienced this many times before.

So many times, that she had almost grown resistant to it.

Almost.

But she wasn't. Not completely. And this time, it felt a hundred times worse, as she held the torn fragments of a year's worth of hard work in her hands. All her efforts had gone to waste. All those late nights and deadline projects were nothing more than ripped skeletons of ink photographs.

She felt as torn apart as them.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to do something. But nothing came out. An eternity seemed to fade away as she slouched onto the freezing cold floor, back against the board that had once been filled with her collage.

Misery is only the first stage.

The second, is rage.

As she sat there on the floor, one question kept bothering her.

Who could have done this?

Although she had an inkling that it was her nemesis, she had no proof. There were no cameras and when she had last left the classroom, there had been at least five other students in there.

The third stage took a little longer to come; acceptance and remedy.

Rue shook her head, crawling her fingers through her nest of dark hair. It didn't matter who had done it. It had been done and she had to do something. She still had to submit something.

But what could she do?

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