Her beautiful white arms were destroyed by the words and actions of others, sliced to shreds by shards of glass and lethal metal.
Some cuts were shallow, barely skimming the surface. Some went deeper, testing her skin's strength.
Some scars were old, from years ago.
And some were recent, inflicted days ago.
Only one was fresh, bleeding profusely.
The incision she'd made before she left, the one that had destroyed her left wrist. It spilled blood across her pale skin, making a river of red.
Salty tears splashed on her skin, mingling with the red droplets in the dark.
The face of the girl was a hundred years old as it mirrored the misery obscuring her being, her mind, her life.
