"Pfft, there goes the cutter." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she whispered those words to the girl beside her. Slouching further into my heavy jacket, it covered my neck and by the time I was down the hallway half my head was buried in the fabric.

Hi, my name is Tora... it means Tiger in Japanese. I'm not Asian though, I was born and raised here in Chilliwack. No matter how much I wish I could of moved away, I was stuck here.

Walking home I treaded slowly through the damp road, it was empty. I was alone; like always. I didn't have many friends, that could be cause everyone avoided me. I'm not really sure why, it could have been my natural black hair, my translucent white skin that could never tan, or my limited choice in black attire.

"Tora! Get in the house! NOW!" Racing ahead I stumbled in my front door, it was left open for me. My father has a temper, and unfortunately a drinking problem as well. The little money my mother and I made was poured down the drain by him buying alcohol all the time.

Making my way up the steps to my room, I hurried once I heard my father start to shout at my mother. Most of the bruises on my mother's body and mine were usually covered by long shirts and pants, except she was hardly ever allowed out of the house. The only reason why I was even able to go to school was because it was mandatory, my father didn't want anyone looking around the house or questioning us.

Curling in my only blanket, I shivered. It was almost December, and the nights were getting colder. The house had no heating, and many nights we went to bed without dinner. The next morning I was already off to school, taking the same route day after day. Except today I had got a nice shiner on the left side of my face, he said he was sick of seeing my face.

I guess I shouldn't of said back, that I was sick of seeing his face to. Frankly I was sick, of everything. My life sucked, I had no friends, I was dirt cheap poor, and I was scared for my life. Not only at home, but at school to. Nobody liked the emo kid, the one who cut herself, the one who only owned three different shirts.

Life was tough, who ever said it was easy.

Instead of going back home where I knew my father would be waiting for me, I followed the track by the town park. I couldn't see anything, but there was nothing to see anyway. I was in a daze when I pulled out my pocket knife, sat back against a tree, and slashed. My wrists and arms were decorated in faint white strips, from old cut's to the new ones that were still red from my retreat during the lunch hour.

Watching the metal shine in the moons glare, my own blood glinting off the reflection. What would happen if I was to do it. Would anyone miss me? Would they call the cops to come find me, when I never came back? What was I thinking... nobody would care, I bet nobody would even notice.