*warning, major trigger warning! Do not hold me responsible, read at own risk*

I got home soon after school, well not soon, I have to catch a bus and that's about an hour. The whole trip I was scratching my legs and arms, my scars and cuts. I needed more, I didn't know why, but I needed to cut.

I walked across the street and into my house, opening up the door with my key, I looked around the house, But I didn't see anyone around so I assumed dad was still at work and mum was doing something else. I ran straight to my room and brought out the scissors, I pulled up the skirt of my school uniform. looking at the scars already laid right up my thigh, I put it down, I then lifted up my sleeve to see the basically normal skin, a few hardly, visible white lines.

I placed the top of my blade against my wrist, I sat there, my hand shaking, before running it quickly across the small of my arm. The blade bumping against my bed, making a small creak. I stared at the cut, seeing the blood slowly bubble above the pink line. But it wasn't enough. I repeated the same action consistently until my wrist was red with blood. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed handfuls of toilet paper pushing it against the wounds, seeing the paper become dark red, before pulling it away to see the reduced blood flow. I quickly changed out of my uniform, making sure to grab a shirt with long sleeves, thankfully not suspicious with the cold weather.

I walked over to the other side of my room, reaching a calendar hanging in my wall beside my bed. I picked up the red pen, and drew a line through the date just passing. One more reminder of what I have done, of what I am feeling, of what won't go away.