Disclaimer: I do not own To Save a Life or any of the characters.
A/N: Sorry if it seems a little slow, I just wanted to give some background and some of Andrea's feelings before the story.
I didn't know when it had started.
Between school and family, maybe it was inevitable. I didn't know.
There had to be something more than this. But I was deluded if I thought there was. Maybe death would be the closest I would ever get to "more than this", if I finally got up the nerve to go through with killing myself.
I had been cutting for a while. For as long as I could remember, I cutting was my norm. I was a freshman at the local high school now, and I had been cutting since at least 8th grade. Probably even before that.
I just didn't know when I had started needing it so much, when it became my drug to get rid of all the emotional pain whenever something bad would happen.
It helped get rid of the pain, it really did. I hated my life, I hated living, and cutting was the only thing that got me through the day. I was at the point where even on a "good" day, I had to cut myself at least once just to make sure I was still living, that I wasn't in a dreamland or worse, hell.
I blamed my parents mostly. My siblings always got everything they asked for, and I barely even got glanced at. My dad was always with some other woman, the reason for his absence until the wee hours of the morning, but of course in my junior high days I hadn't known that. But my mom still stayed with him. Even though whenever he was home he would beat her senseless sometimes, if he had had too much to drink. I never got beat by him, mainly because I stayed away, I was so scared of him when he was drunk. Finally, my parents divorced in 8th grade. It was all my fault, or so I thought, because I was so worthless and couldn't do anything right (whenever they did pay attention to me that was all I heard about, how stupid I was). I hated bouncing back and forth between houses—Dad's on every other weekend, Mom's the rest of the time—even though it wasn't that often, but I always got the couch at my dad's.
Then there was school. I was a social pariah, the freak, the weirdo without any friends. I always brought my razors to school; it was my little secret and no one ever caught me, even if things were really bad in a certain class and I was "scratching"—causing pain, but not breaking skin or making myself bleed—with one under the desk. I wasn't like goth or anything—I had my own sense of style that was more punk-esque than anything—but I always had at least two colors in my hair and I always wore long sleeves ALWAYS and that alone made me a freak.
If I wasn't being ignored, I was being laughed at. Usually I was just ignored though. But not today. Today some idiot jock thought it would be funny to trip me—the girl whose name nobody knew—while I was walking to my empty table in the corner of the cafeteria. My tray flew out of my hands and I fell right on top of it. My shirt was soiled, my blue, pink, and brown hair filled with food.
I stood up angrily. I didn't cry, even though I felt the tears coming to my eyes. I pushed them down. I would not lose my resolve, would not let them know that I had wanted to cry for just a second, that I felt so alone and worthless and just wanted to die. I never cried in front of these people. I hated these people, and I wanted them to know it. I left the tray on the ground, turned around, and stalked out of the cafeteria.
Headed straight to the bathroom. Nobody cared. Not my family, who had seen my arms sliced and bleeding right in front of their faces and were either too ignorant or just looking right through me to even care. Not these jerks at school, who used me as the butt of their jokes constantly, or pretended I wasn't there. I had no friends. No family, not really. Nobody.
Climbed on top of the toilet seat and sort of crouched down. I reached for my messenger bag on the ground in front of me and pulled the razor I had unscrewed from the inside of a pencil sharpener out of one of the small side pouches.
I pulled up my right sleeve, then pressed the razor against it. Since I was at school, I wasn't going to cut hard enough to draw blood. Just enough to release the pain. What's the point of even living? I thought as I squinted against the pain I was causing myself. No one would even notice I'm gone. If they did it would just be to wonder where they're favorite torture subject went. I thought like this a lot. It was true though, it really was. No one at school knew my name, my dad was always wasted out of his mind, my mom was always doting on my brother and sister so much it was like I had never been born. That would have been too much to ask, to never be born. It would have been amazing.
I didn't have a change of clothes, so I didn't bother. I didn't even attempt to rinse out my hair. I would let them think that what they did to me did not bother me a bit. When I was done I jumped off the toilet, picked up my bag, and walked out of the bathroom to go to the class I was late to.
As luck would have it, today was also report card day. I used to be a straight A student. But when everyone stopped caring, I stopped caring too. School was pointless anyway. When I walked in the door late and slammed my bag on the ground, the teacher gave me an evil look then walked over and handed me my report card. Straight C's and D's.
I really didn't care about my grades. But I was dreading the night, when I would lie awake for hours.