Edited Thank You to those who reviewed, and to Bleached Roses, I hope it's better -.

Cracks In the Ceiling by: inxyourxeyes

Lying down on her bed, she stared at the ceiling. Riddled with cracks and peeling paint, she remembers all the times she painted her room. The wonderful colours -- blues, pinks, purples, reds. The time she spent with her mom, how she cherished that time for so long. Now those times were gone, her mom was always working or out with her boyfriend, Jack. How pathetic, she thought, I can't even get a boyfriend. Let alone anyone who wants to spend time with me...no one really cares.

She looked at her old dolls, all piled into a box. She didn't want them anymore. They used to bring her joy. She reminisced about the times she'd played house, or doctor with Jenny and her dolls. Those were the good times, but they were now gone. Jenny was too "cool" to be seen with her, and so she drifted down hallways and between classes and the washroom, the caff and the washroom, alone. Forever alone. She walked over to the box of dolls and picking up her favourite one, a tear fell down her cheek. She remembered how she'd hold the doll, close to her heart, whenever her parents fought, and when her dad left.

Now everyone was leaving, Jenny was gone, dad was gone, mom was gone...whose left?

She looked down at the doll. Stared. Stared intensely into it's green eyes. Like little jewels...so much prettier than her dull brown eyes. Stared at the folds in its pretty sun dress, a lovely shade of coral. Stared at its little black shoes, she wanted a pair just like them when she was young. In a fit of anger she tore the doll's head off and threw it at the wall. It made a loud thump when it hit the wall, and another when it hit the ground. Why can’t my demise be so easy?

She returned to her refuge -- her bed. Back to the ceiling. She counted the cracks, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... There was just too many. This room reflected her own stifelled emotions. All the bruises and scrapes her mind has suffered over the years, all the scars that never really healed, all the blood that had been spilled, all were here, in the room, with her. She felt the walls close in, as if to punish her for what she had done. She whispered, What have I done...?

Walking over to her dresser, she stopped to look in the mirror and marvel at the horror that she had become. Frizzy black and red hair sticking off in all directions. The curls in her once envy-worthy hair were now half dreads. Her once carmel skin had now faded making her into a pale image of the walking dead. Mascara and eyeliner now miles from where they had been applied, she decided she looked like hell. Staring into her reflected gaze, her eyes looked like those of an old witch doctor – faded shades of brown and black with a thick milkly gloss. Her tears now came like a rain storm. I hate what've I become...I've changed too much...that's why no one loves me...I don't even love me...I hate myself...I hate myself...I hate myself...hate myself...hate... her voice trailed off.

She opened the drawer and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Her mom would never know she took it...she drinks too much to notice. She took a long swig and return, once again, to her bed. She sat in the middle of her bed, cross legged and drinking her pain away. With every mouthful of the fire-like liquid, she'd forget each and every problem she ever had. But her sadness also grew, until she was crying harded than before.

Every thought that went through her head made her sad. She was so worthless, good for nothing. She thought back to the time her dad left, Had he ever loved me? She could not stop the down pour of tears, If he loved me, he wouldn’t have left. Her teenage life made her wish she wasn't there, made her wish she was invisible. She wished she could stop hurting people.

She rolled up her sleeves to examine her arms. How many scars were here? Like the cracks in the ceiling, too many to count. There was not point keeping track, or stopping the infliction of the scars...they all just blended together. She reached underneathe her mattress and pulled out a straight razor. She laughed at the sinful pleasure it brought her just to see it and the twisted happiness it brought her while it tore her skin.

She took a drink of fire and then ran the sharp blade down her arm. A straight line of blood was drawn from the crease of her elbow to her wrist. Pressing even harder she drew another line in her skin, parallel to the first. A weight was lifted off her heart. She laid back in her bed, took a final firey swig and closed her eyes.

The next morning, all the neighbours were talking about the young girl with the drunk mother and missing father. Talking of how she was found dead in her bed and how for the first time since they'd known her, she looked happy.