Author's Note: This is my first attempt to commit to a story, so please be gentle with critiques. This is a work of fiction, though strongly influenced by my actual experiences with sucide, self harm, eating disorders, and all the treatment that goes along with it. Please be kind, and if you don't like it then tell me what i can improve on. No flames please! :) Oh! And expect longer chapters from me as I progress, this prologue is more of an attention-grabber than an actual substantial chapter. PEACE!


"I hate you." I whisper jaggedly at her, my voice trembling and my breath hitching.

I hated a lot of things, like the way I could never sound fierce or threatening, even when I could practically taste the bitter blackness of rage in my throat. I hated how I became so overwhelmed with anger that it overflowed in the form of humiliating tears. I hated crying because it made me feel vulnerable, and a girl like me couldn't afford to be weak and emotionally exposed in a world like this. The list could go on and on, but nothing –I mean nothing- ranked so high upon this list than her.

She sat in front of me Indian-style, half-naked and glaring. The way the band of her bra cut into her side-fat made me want to hit her, made me want to scream. A thought cycled through my mind, looping like the main menu music on a DVD, until I couldn't control myself. Actually that was a lie; I was always, always in control. I just decided that she deserved a verbal beating. After all, she chose this. She chose to lose control, and she knew what would inevitably come along with her decision.

"You fat, ugly bitch." I snarl venomously, keeping my voice low so that only she could hear.

"You're hideous. Disgusting. Pathetic. You-" I pause because she is staring at me.

"Don't look at me." I hiss at her.

She merely glares back defiantly, with those hideously flat brown eyes.

"Don't look at me." I can feel something raw welling up in my throat. Her eyes never leave mine.

"Stop looking at me!" I am yelling now, and there's this hysterical edge in my voice that scares me.

She doesn't even flinch.

Without thinking, I lose control and I hit her. No, I don't just hit her. I punch her with enough force to break that beak she calls a nose, to bruise the flimsy skin around those shit-stained eyes, to probably even give her useless brain a concussion. But instead my fist connects with glass, and she shatters into a million splinters at my feet. My fist erupts like a volcano once it hits the mirror, and there's blood everywhere.

Everything is happening in slow motion now and I can hear my heartbeat in my head.

My bedroom door swings open, hard enough that it should've ripped off its hinges.

Someone is screaming, but it's muted and fuzzy, like the person shrieking is miles away rather than in my room. I can't focus on the words that she's crying; maybe she's not really screaming anything. Maybe all that her lips can form is incoherent wails, maybe there's too much pain for words to sufficiently describe.

I tear my eyes away from the empty mirror frame long enough to look my mom full in the eyes and heave a single heavy sob. Then a black fog infiltrates my periphery, closing quickly over my mom's frantic form and the rest of my world. I'm out before I hit the floor.