She'll just keep staring at him, because that's what she does best. Stay silent, that is. And she'll go up to her room later, and pound down a bottle of (illegal) fire whiskey. That's what she does second-best. Try to drown her problems.

Her problems with life. Her problems with love. Her problems with boys, with her cousins, with everything. She settles them with alcohol, and sometimes razorblades. And she's fine with that, because that's all she thinks she deserves.

Little does she know, she deserves more. She's a good person (most of the time), and she's never had (too much) sex, and she's never cheated (intentionally). She's better than her skanky sister, who will get into bed with any decent-looking boy that flashes her a smile. And she's certainly better than her brother, a no-brained meat wad who can't think for himself. So why does she deserve this?

She should be able to get a happy ending, just like her mum. Because she's just like her mum. A good student, a pretty woman, a kind soul. Someone that should be looked up to. But she's not. She's glanced over as the middle child.

Sometimes, being in a big family is hard. She has too many cousins, uncles and aunts. It's frustrating. But she loves them, and they love her. So it's alright. Everyone gets mad with their family sometimes. It's natural. But she knows they'll always get over it in the end. Because they'll never intentionally hurt each other. Until now.

Her cousin – or maybe it was her sister, but they all look alike through the tears – stole her boyfriend. Well, now her ex-boyfriend, but they'd been dating up until about ten minutes ago. Then she'd come down from her room, in her nicest dress, smiling. And they'd been snogging on the couch, for everyone to see. So she'd been standing here, for the last ten minutes. Tears slowly rolling down her cheeks as she tried to make sense of it all.

When it had been exactly ten minutes, she retreated. This wasn't fair! Not fair at all! Her life flashes before her eyes as she gulps down the fire whiskey. Her throat is burning, but she doesn't care. The bottle's empty, and she tosses it at the door. It shatters, and she doesn't care. She's not drunk enough. So she fishes another bottle out from under her bed, and slams it down. Over and over, until she's too drunk to tell that it's her hand that's in front of her face.

And then she scrabbles around in her nightstand. Triumphantly pulls out a razorblade. She doesn't remember why she has it (drunk as all hell right now), but she just knows she does. She drags it across her (bare) wrist. The pain causes her to moan (happily).She's a masochist, really.

So she drags the razor across again. She continues until her arm is covered in oozing crimson lines. And she does the same thing with the other arm, until it's oozing too. Then she proceeds to one leg, and then the other.

And she watches as she loses too much blood. And she's happy. She's too drunk to care. And she knows that it's all over for her now. And that's okay. She's tired of it all. And she lies down, and she never gets back up.