The fifth stall to the left.

I make my way into the bathroom, counting, but at the same time not, walking towards the last stall there is.

There is no one in the other stalls.

Walking smoothly over to the stall, and close the door, hearing the lock click into place.

I sigh in relief. Finally. Some peace and solitude.

But the solitude does not last long; before I take another breath, a crowd of girls' influxes into the bathroom, chattering and admiring themselves in the mirror. They all take their positions; some goes into the stalls, some wash their hands, some just chatter, some light a cigarette, some fix their make-up, checking themselves out in the mirrors.

I freeze, praying that no one finds me. No one should care; it's the last stall in the bathroom. No one looks there.

After a while, a few girls leave, still chatting, and the rest follow obediently.

I breathe out after I know that the last of them are out, and away from my way.

I walk over to the toilet, and bend over, thrusting my two forefingers into my throat, attempting to get to the trigger. And then, compulsion; but at the same time I feel great relief. I am rid of at least that much toxins.

They are nasty, ugly things. But I need to eat them. I am forced to eat them. And some times, I just can't stop myself, and I can't control myself.

And I need to get rid of them. Before they go through my digestive system. Before they can do any damageā€¦

After a while, I am panting, and red in my face, sticky mixture of saliva and bile collecting on my hand and in my mouth.

When I had problems with my Spanish teacher, who I could officially describe as crazy, my mother had told me every day to be on guard. She was going to someday bring a knife to school and stab me. Of course, that never happened, but the fear of being stabbed stayed in my heart, and the cautiousness still lingers until now. I am fearful of human skin contact, yet I crave it so. I am cold. I am cold, and isolated.

I involuntarily stiffen when someone hugs me, but I want to be hugged. I want to be touched. I'm so cold, so desolate. I feel so alone.

I live everyday in fear of backstabbing. I live everyday in fear of hurting myself, or the ones I love. Even if I hate them for any reason, I still feel their pain, and share their sadness. It's just that they don't know I do.

A few emotions shown by them cling to me, and assemble themselves in my heart where they bind and torture me with their pain and suffering.