Chapter One


His Point Of View

            The cuts are deep. They're deeper now than they were last month. I turn my pencil over and I ignore the paper before me as I put the eraser on the tip of the wound. I let it run down my tightening skin until it hurts too much and I wince. My fingers are getting numb now and the throbbing starts.

            Every time this happens, I can't particularly remember the reason it happened before. This one has been repetitive. It makes my heart skip a beat every single time I touch it. I sigh and I put my other hand over my wrist. I hold back my tears as I look at the head in front of me.

            He never asks. He notices and then he looks away.

            Some best friend.

            "Five more minutes," the teacher calls out. I turn my head back to the paper and I erase the last answer, noticing a mistake. Someone's watching me.

            I turn my head to my right and I lock eyes with her for the first time since the last day of school. She signed my yearbook and then she rolled her eyes after she read my comment. I know everybody writes it was nice knowing you this year, see you next year but I didn't really know her.

            I don't think I want to know her.

            She keeps her gaze on my wrist until I hide it. She brings her eyes up to mine. They're brown, really dark brown. But they're a scary brown. They're… they're angry and they're not understandable.

            "Papers down."

            She turns her paper over and she keeps her eyes on me.

            "Hey, bitch," she boy in front of me snaps at her. "Get over it, you'll never have him." She keeps her eyes on me, now even more disdainful. She blinks once.

            "You'll never-"

            "-Get laid, I know," she finishes and turns her eyes back to her desk. I don't look up at him. He doesn't deserve a thank-you.

            I ignore everything around me for the rest of the class. I put my chin in my hand and I close my eyes occasionally. I think it's all coming together now. I think I'm lying.

            I think back to this summer, and how I spent the last week lying about how I spent most of my summer smoking pot and having lots of sex.

            Actually, I never did either.

            My wrist makes its way back out into the open… and she looks at me again.

            Now I'm not the only one who knows what I really meant when I said I was fine.

Her Point Of View

            It was nice knowing you this year, see you next year.

            But you don't know me. And you haven't. You don't even know my name. You don't even volunteer to be in my group when we have to do a group project. You laugh with your friends when one of them says that he bets I'll be the last person to be put in a group. Then you laugh when you see he's right. And on the inside, I want to kill all of you. Only, now I don't have to think about how I'm going to end up doing it. You're already killing yourself, so I don't have to worry anymore.

            In some sick way, I feel satisfied.

            And in another… I feel pity. I pity you really…

            I pity you because I never pity myself. But even if I hide my scars better, that doesn't mean we have anything in common.

            I'll come to your funeral.