They look at her like they know everything thatrquote s going on in her life, but they don't know anything. They see a girl who does great in school, but has dark rings under her eyes. She never eats lunch, they've all heard her say it's because she's vegetarian, but they suspects it's because she's poor and can't afford food. The teachers watch as she finishes her assignments days early, and wonder how she manages to finish everything so quickly. They're all curious.

She tells them that she's just tired all the time, and they can see it in the way she looks. Some look her over a few times and tell her quietly "Honey, you look like shit." Others just watch her silently and don't say a word.

Sometimes they're lucky enough to see a glimpse of who she really is. Every now and then they'll catch her about to cry or kicking the hell out of a wall. But no one stops to ask why. They just keep watching.

She leaves school to go home every night, taking the same road as she did that morning. The emerald green grass that she crosses to reach the house looks as soft as a pillow, and she wonders if it really is that comfortable. Her father isn't home when she finally gets through the door, and the house is silent. She slips into her room and drops her bag on the bed, curling up into a ball in the corner.

Books are scattered about the well-kept room, and a trunk sits in a corner. Poems and pictures stare down at those observing their beautiful artwork, all pieces extremely important to her. Notebooks line the bottom shelf of her bookshelf, and the rest are filled from top to bottom with various stories. Fantasy, non-fiction, sci-fi, mystery, drama, romance; anything you could possibly think of is on her shelves.

Pills sit in a line on her bedside stand, the tan wicker wood delicately woven. Anti-depressants take up most of the area, but Excedrin, Pamprin, and various pain pills also occupy the top of the stand. A computer peers from the top of a tattered dresser, and various floppy disks and pens are scattered across the dresser's doesn't even bother to look about as she buries her face into her knees, trying so hard not to cry. The silence is deafening, and she wonders how her father can stand it. A small razor blade is hidden under a gold-colored bowl on the stand, and she slowly removes it. The small silver piece glints in the light, sparkling as though it was a lost treasure trove of silver. The tip of the blade grins wickedly, yelling out death to all who dare to look. She peers at the small blade for a second, and then slides the blade across her left wrist. All the physical pain from the day evaporates, and all she can feel is a brilliant safe euphoria. Her head suddenly clears of her earlier migraine, and she watches as the blood begins to bloom at the surface of the skin. Red droplets roll down the inside of her arm, and she mops it up with a tissue. Crimson red against the white makes her stare down in color.

She sighs a little and pulls her sleeve down past her wrist so that no one can see her self-inflicted wounds. While she knows that she does things like this to survive, others haven't been so observant. They wanted to lock her away in a room where no one could get to her, and where she couldn't hurt herself. She'd learned over time to stay away from those people, they only caused her pain.

She runs her right index finger along her collarbone, sighing happily at how far the precious bone is beginning to jut out of her skin. Anorexia and self-injury, her sanity. Smiling coyly, she slides the leg of her jeans up and admires the scars on the pale skin. Bones jut out on her delicate legs as well, and it only causes her smile to deepen. She rolls down the heavy blue fabric quickly so that even if her father did come home, he wouldn't know what was going on. They were all so oblivious.

Sleep was her drug of choice lately considering it was the only real way she could escape what was happening in her life. The screaming and the fighting had reached its peak, and her head was constantly screaming out for quiet. The bruises on her knees ached, and her fingers were an icy cold. Wondering whether she should eat or not, she sits there for afew minutes pondering the possibilities. Finally she just lets it go, deciding that the calories aren't worth a few minutes of flavor.

She lays her head against the cold of the wall, and tucks her fingers into her shirt sleeves. Sleep claims her almost immediately, and for a short time, she's put out of her misery.