Prologue: Last Resort

Sitting all alone on the dirty bathroom floor of her cabin, she pulls out a razor and shard of glass from behind some of the girls' tampons in the cabinet underneath the sink. She'd nicked the shard from the crafts' room earlier that evening. She smiles at the sound of her bunkmates' excessively loud breathing. Rising to her feet, she closes the bathroom door and sheds her black hoodie. Going back to her original place, she picks up the razor.

Maybe the kids here are right. I'm mean, who in actuality would really miss me if I did this? I can count them on one hand. They're right; I'm not worth life. I shouldn't be taking up others' air. I don't do anything but cause problems for people like Mike and Jaime and Sarah…hell my entire family too.

The treatment, both verbal and not, from my fellow campers are more comforting than Jessica's harsh words. Why did my parents even decide to send me to camp this year? I wasn't prepared for this. It's not my fault I'm shy and lack self-esteem and social skills. Sending me to this Popsicle Stick Land wasn't going to fix that.

I don't understand how shyness can be mistaken for bitchiness or haughtiness. Grant it, I may have pissed them off after the first couple of times but they shouldn't have attacked me because they thought that I thought that I was too good for them. Fucking morons, that's the problem with the world today. Too many people assume one thing to be true so that it sort of becomes a truth and then other people believe it too like the sheep they are.

I can't believe Mom and Dad didn't even believe me when I told them what the other campers were doing to me. I know you're supposed to turn the other cheek but it's kind of hard when you're being surrounded from all sides. Honestly. I'll miss my parents though. They're going to be hacked off but that's their problem for not believing their daughter and listening to the crazy counselor say I was 'embellishing in hopes of a return to a more familiar environment'.

What a load of bull but oh no, Daddy dearest was already mad at me being mildly defiant as the end of school came when I refused to study for my exams. I can't be his genius. I hate making straight A's and being a perfect obedient student for others to look up to. One would think he'd get that I'm trying to be me without him completely dictating me.

Everything's just fucked up but I don't have to worry about that soon. I'm going to die anyway. Why not just save myself from many panic attacks and uncontrollable rages and get it over with now. Then I won't fear death. Sounds like one of the best things I've ever thought of. But if I wait till I get home and do it I could use his gun and put a bullet straight through my skull. Quick…but no, I need to feel a lot pain before I die. I need to feel something because after being maltreated and berated for the past three weeks I can't feel a damn thing and it's just…I hate them all and I hope they choke on that shit they call food!

She looks from her left arm to her right arm as if deciding which would make the better canvas. Twirling the razor in her left hand, she stares at her right wrist and touches the blade to her skin. Before pressing down, she decides to make the most out of her canvas. Pulling of her shirt, she sits in her baggy basketball shorts and black sports bra.

Putting the blades to her upper arm, she presses down hard and moves the razor down to make a straight line. She closes her eyes and relishes in the pain as the layers of her skin are taken away. At the bottom of the line she presses the blades down, moving the razor again and makes a horizontal line, creating an L.

An L for a loser, very appropriate but that wasn't enough, she thinks as she watches her blood spill from her with morbid fascination. What a sight I will be when they find me in the morning.

She puts the razor down and picks up the shard. Running her fingers over the smoothness of the glass she turns over her arm so she can see her veins. Placing the shard on her wrist, she presses down and moves it back and forth. Her left hand begins to tingle numbingly from scar tissue and she watches as the blood flows freely from her wrist, giving her hand a chance to recover.

She is too caught up in looking at her work that she fails to hear someone open the bathroom door. The person opens their mouth and lets out a glass-shattering scream. She looks up to see a girl known as Veronica screaming bloody murder in the doorway.

Dropping the shard, she watches as time slows down and her camp counselor rushes in. Black spots float around in the air and she begins to lose control of her body. Her counselor wraps a towel tightly around her wrist and upper arm. She watches the scene transpire from outside in the rain. Darkness finally takes over.

Damn carpal tunnel.