Pale yellow sunlight streamed gently through the window that sat directly above my bed. I let out a huge yawn, stretched, and vigorously rubbed my eyes. The clock across from my bed shone "10:47" in bright green letters. I smiled, thinking of the sunny summer day ahead.

And that's when the horrible images spilled into my mind again. All the very familiar raging emotions came back to me – terror, fury, depression. The best part of my entire day – the very first ten seconds, when I actually managed to forget it all – was over. I had nothing to look forward to besides tomorrow's teensy bit of bliss.

Pain suddenly surged into my left forearm as the numbness of sleep trickled away. The grotesque bloodiness of my skin nearly caused me to gag. I vaguely remembered a time when I thought cutting was a horrible, pointless, pathetic habit. For people who desperately wanted attention. For people who had no regard for anyone but themselves.

What did I know back then? I was just a dense, naïve, know-it-all girl. People don't always cut to get attention. Attention is the last thing I want.

Before my father went away, he'd always tell me to pinch myself in the arm when I banged my head or scraped my knee. That way, the pain wouldn't be entirely focused on my initial wound. That's why I cut. I needed to balance out the pain in my heart.

I slowly dragged myself out of bed and staggered downstairs. I was finally starving; for the past week I'd eaten almost nothing whatsoever. Food – any food at all – made me feel nauseous.

The kitchen was a disaster – the sink contained a heap of reeking week-old dishes, the wooden floor was in desperate need of a mopping, the tiny kitchen table still had last night's dinner on it, and the cabinets were a rotting mess. On the tiled counter was a note:

"Larissa –

Please clean room, feed NASCAR, vacuum, and DO DISHES! I'll be home by 9.

Love, Mom"

I should have stayed in bed.