Relaxing her grip, she let it fall to the floor. Her palms were slick with sweat, her arms shaking. Her legs felt numb, her mind, clouded. Stumbling out of her bed, she grabbed the mirror she kept there - broken now. Through the cracked surface she could see countless tiny glimmers, like diamonds; the spots where the glass had started to crack. The mirror played an ugly light across her face, and she stared at it in disbelief and anger.
"Ugly, Ugly, UGLY!" She whispered, and threw the mirror across the room. It landed with a sickening crack against her wall. Hearing a sound outside her door, she scrambled into bed once again, kicking the blade - the one she had been holding moments before - under it as she went. She turned away from the light as the door opened just a fraction.
"Char, you ok?" Her mother. Coming to check in on her little freak again, Charlotte mused bitterly. Feigning sleep, Charlotte said nothing. The door opened further, with a slight creak, and suddenly Charlotte could feel a weight at the end of her bed.
"Charlotte, my love . . . I know you're awake. Talk to me." Silence.
The weight lifted, and the door closed. Charlotte was, once more, alone.
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The next day at school, Charlotte couldn't look anyone in the eye. Not that it mattered; that's how she always was. Quiet little Charlotte, sitting alone, eating alone, walking alone; talking alone. Though surrounded by people, Charlotte was isolated. She liked it better that way. It meant that nobody asked you what was wrong. She had a friend, once. Joanna. But, as was always the case, when Charlotte got bad, Joanna left her to rot. They all left her to rot. Now Joanna was the most popular person ever, and Charlotte? She was the complete opposite. People, when they remembered that she existed, laughed at her, called her names. The told her she was worthless. And she believed them.
First lesson - Math. A subject she didn't care about at all. She did her work silently, and when she was done sat scribbling on her papers. Everyone around her was laughing, throwing things, fighting playfully - ignoring her completely, as usual. She left the classroom, and drifted away from the group - the next lesson was History, and she couldn't face it. Her teacher hated her; made it his mission to bully her in every lesson. There was one occasion when he was nice to her. He asked to see her after class about some of her work, and she had agreed. He had locked the door and . . . She started running as fast as she could away from the room, heading . . . god knows where. Where could she go? She couldn't go home; couldn't even leave school, or they'd catch her. Thinking furiously, she turned left and sprinted up the corridor, knocking someone over on the way. She didn't stop to apologise.
Finally, she slowed down. In front of her, the bathrooms. She entered them slowly, listening out for the slightest sound of someone already in there. She heard nothing. Running into a cubicle, she slammed and locked the door behind her. Her hands were shaking violently as she ripped her bag open, taking her pen out of the pocket in the front. Ripping off the lid with one hand, she pulled up her sleeve with her teeth. Tears began cascading down her face, leaving filthy tracks. Her hand now shaking almost uncontrollably, she stared at the pen; her bare arm. She almost let go of the pen - almost stopped herself. She's managed to stop herself every other time, but this time, it wasn't enough.
She bit into her lip to stop the screams. As the nib of the pen dug deeper into her arm, and as the blood started to flow, she stared at the locked door in front of her and fought to stay silent. One small, strangled sob broke through, but that was all.
Afterwards, when the bleeding had slowed, she scrunched up a wad of toilet paper and pressed it over the wound. It stung, and that made her sob once again, but she held it, revelling in the pain.
She went to the nurse. Told her she wasn't feel well. Got sent home early.
This pattern repeated every week. New wounds, new excuses, new pain. And nobody to turn to.
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