I don't really know what set me off. The Dining Room gang or my parents. But whatever it was, it sent me to my room. I shut the door, locked it and slid my back against the wooden, white entrance until my bum met my shagged carpet.
Then I cried.
I cried, cried and cried and cried. Then I was just pissed. I was tired of being a goody-two-shoes. I was tired of doing my goddamn homework and turning it in on time. I was tired of not having my first kiss. I was tired of being a virgin. I was tired of not having any guts. I was tired of being imperfect. I was tired of being afraid.
So I stood up and marched over to my desk of office supplies and grabbed my scissors. I paced across my room, my heart furious with adrenaline pouring out of my heaving chest. How does one do this? Where do I do this? How would I hide it? Am I even going to do it? Damn it -- yes. Yes, I am.
I got on my knees and took my left index finger. I separated the blades and pressed the sharp edge against the skin at the top. I pressed, and pressed and pressed and pressed. God, it hurt. But I kept going. It was no big deal. Yet for some fucking reason, I lifted the scissors away from my flesh.
No blood. Just a skinny red line against the tip of my little, useless finger.