She kept smiling. She didn't stop being friendly and so, people refused to acknowledge that something had changed. She was calling out to people, hoping for some affection, needing someone to care. No one heard her call or no one wanted to. She would help others with their pain and all she wanted was the same. She wanted someone to turn to her and ask her opinion, she wanted someone to show that she still existed. Beneath her sleeves, hidden under her arm-warmers, two scars lurked, scars that she kept refreshing. When people saw them but didn't say anything, she would stop all questions with a hostile glance but inside, she would scream. Internally, she would shriek her anger at the world, that no one had the guts to ask her what had happened to her arms, that no one had shown any sympathy. Before, she didn't understand how someone could cut themselves but she eventually figured it out. All it took was a safety pin and a razor blade. She listened to others' problems, she was a consolation to those who needed her but no one understood that she wanted to be held as well, that she wanted a hug without having to ask for one. She seemed happy because she covered up. Behind the mask that she had created for society, she was crumbling, melting away into nothing. She was depressed, angry at life and the way it had treated her, furious at people in general. She needed proof that people were not as bad as she thought. No one gave it to her. Life was awful for her, every day was painful but she still kept going. She would take out her fury on herself, slicing her arms until the blood came. She would sit, staring at the red pearls and asking herself how it had come to this, how she had lost her self control. The tears would sometimes come and she would wipe them away angrily, hiding evidence. She pretended everything was fine and people were too obstinate to look beneath the surface. She would get home and want to see blood, want to see the crimson relief for her pain. She was collapsing but still, she kept smiling.
