A/N: No flames, please. This is very angsty and depressing. You have been warned. I hope that you will take a few seconds to review this. Thank you ^_^

What a pale face in the mirror! What a sad look in those enormous dark eyes! What a pain inflicted by the constant loneliness, how it eats and gnaws and gnaws and eats away at her heart! She leans forward, and her large eyes grow even bigger as her reflection fills out the shining hand-mirror which has been hung by its handle on a nail. A crystal-clear tear rolls down her cheek.

What makes me so different from the others?!

This sentence burns a path through her mind like a flaming arrow.

Is it because I don't do what the others do?

And she knows the answer is yes. She is no victim to peer pressure-for she can resist it, but she is a victim to prejudices, to mockery and to loneliness. Her hand reaches into her pocket. She withdraws a penknife. She shakes back her hair and rolls up her right sleeve. Gripping the knife tightly in her left hand, she slashes across the bare skin.

Oh, the pain is so good, this is so good!

Another slash, this time near the wrist.

How horribly sad to experience happiness through pain!

The blood wells forth from the tortured arm and flows down the skin in rivulets, a lightning-bolt in red.


So much pain, and not all the blood in her body can wash it away.


She sticks the knife in her mouth and laps off the blood clinging wetly to the faithful blade.

This knife is my only lover. This sharp blade is at my service whenever I need it.

A hoarse shriek bursts out of her, and she drops the penknife, harsh sobs ramming their way out of her chest.

Is there no equality, no justice, no love on this damned planet? Why do others have friends and all the things they can dream of while the rest suffer from Goodness knows how many things?

She doesn't know the answer to this screaming question. She raises her fist and with all her might she smashes it against the mirror. There is a crisp, crunching sound as her reflection breaks into a million pieces. Fragments of glass tinkle down earthwards. The back of her hand is bleeding. All the blood and all the broken glass mean only the following to her: a bleeding heart and a breaking soul. She has no friends, she has no one to trust. She doesn't know anyone who will hold her when she cries, who will laugh with her when she is happy, who will be angry when she is mad about something or someone-no one to share her emotions. She turns away from the empty frame of the mirror, grinding the bits of glass underneath her high-heels. She walks over to the window and opens it. She stares straight ahead of her, and in her eyes there is a message, and it runs: