So...yeah....Here you go. Just a little thing...Tell me if it's any good, anything I can fix about it. You know, the usual. Sarang He!

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I drag the blade a little further, a little deeper. I grip the scissors in the middle, opening them up wide, a wide mouth to devour my flesh. This pair of scissors is brand new, the blade still sharp, the sharpest I had ever had. I had stolen them from a drawer in the kitchen, and I'd hidden them in the drawer of my desk. I've been itching to get my hands on them all day, yearning to feel.

I imagine that I can cut deep enough, through all seven layers of skin, and the skin just rips open. My body bag of skin just slides off, past all the slick red muscles. I would walk around in my muscle and bone. Then could they see? Would they be able to see all my thoughts? Would they know? My thoughts swirl around in my veins, colliding and shattering as they move through my circular system.

I wonder if they can look into my eyes, my hazel eyes and see into the black ink pool of my pupil, and see my thought-images reflected. Would they do anything? They would probably just turn their backs, let their eyes slide past me. I make them uncomfortable, even now, but they don't know me, they don't know my life. They don't bother to try to know me, they don't like people who won't play their games. They can tell I'm not like them because I refuse to play their games. I refuse to play with their lies and betrayal and twists and loops and turns of their social code. I'm strange because I don't care, and that makes me a freak.

I feel like I'm sliding around inside the skin body bag. None of the nerves are connecting and I don't feel a thing. I feel empty. They can't see me. They can see the body bag, but they can't see my mind. Would they even want to? No, people today like to turn away from others pain, they don't want to be inconvenienced. They'll just let me die and bury me in the skin I'm in.

I unfold my legs and get off my bed which is pushed up against the wall to give me more room on the floor. I feel better now that my whirling thoughts are paused, allowing me a moment to think without being afraid that the pressure the thoughts give me, inflating in my head, is going to make my mind explode with the effort of keeping the words from flying out of my mouth. I have to keep the words inside, otherwise someone might figure it out. I'm always afraid that someone will see past the lies I feed them to keep them happy, keep them thinking I am some breed of a normal teenager, then what would they do? No one was allowed to find out. This was my secret, my pain, my shame. They had no right to find out and pretend like they cared, pretend like they “knew what I was going through.” I couldn't begin to to think what it would be like if that happened. I felt chills run down my spine. That would be all the excuse my mother needed to completely brake down, some guidance counselor telling her. Then it would be my fault, like it always was.

I pick up the scissors from off my bed, my bed with it's thin navy blue comforter that's been faded by years of sun, with it's pillows that have been used for so long that they're compacted and hard. The scissors are still in the shape of an x. Gently I close the blades. I quietly unzip my backpack and put them in, right on top off all the papers and books that are thrown in there, right where I can get them, easy access.

I can hear the television through my bedroom wall, through the door. It's loud, but not loud enough that I can hear any of the words of whatever is on. My mother is probably laying on the couch, passed out drunk.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder. It had a broken strap and I have to carry it on one shoulder. The weight of the books throws me off balance.

I try to slip through the living room and out the front door without incident. My mother moves from where she's passed out on the couch, the morning routine. She gets off work and is home by six in the morning, then she precedes to drink until the state off drunkenness comes around. I come home and about an hour later she leaves for work. Whenever I see her she's usually drunk.

She turns in her sleep when I'm about halfway to the door. I feel my heart jump. She mutters something but doesn't wake up. I tiptoe to the door and slip out. This morning I have been spared. I run to the bus stop and wait as it grumbles down the road, wheezing smoke.