Hey guys, I know you haven't heard from me in a while, so I thought I might make a one shot as I haven't written in a while

It's called thoughts and the truth as sometimes people build up their walls and not many people see through them, and it's been on my mind for a while.

Do I own? Errrm. No. now I need to think of a character… hmm… Ah here we go

I sat in my room one evening. Looking down at the blade in my hand and the scars on my wrists. Why did I do it? I then looked up into the mirror. Staring back at me was a washed out face, sticks for arms and strangly, mousey hair. Just 15 minutes ago I was throwing up the dinner I had had previously that evening when I was out with my friends. I sat there on my rug, thinking what an ugly, fat, disgusting human being I was, how I didn't deserve to live. What I was doing to my self is what I deserved. I picked up the pencil sharpener blade again, and ran it down my hand. I didn't usually cut there. It was too obvious, too out in the open. On my hips was the usual place. No one suspected anything. It didn't cut too deep, just like a cat scratch, which would be what I said if anyone asked. Trickles of blood seeped from the edges. I sighed, then took the tissue next to my knee to dab it. I then stood up, and looked myself up and down in my mirror again. I was wearing my pjamma shorts and a vest top, you could see my ribs poking through. I didn't fit my skin. I didn't even fit my size 6 clothes, at fifteen.

Just earlier this evening, I had gone out. With my friends from school. I dressed in my usual costume of baggy jeans and hoodie; some teased me, telling me I should show off my body, to attract more boys, and I just laughed it off. Me? Attract anyone? What. A. joke. If I couldn't even love myself there is no way in hell that anyone would love me. I laughed along with them, ate the food I brought, asked them about themselves to leave the attention off me. When walking back from the toilet, I saw them laughing, getting along perfectly fine without me. I was like a ghost. A tag along they all took for granted. No one would care if I disappeared. Which was what I did. To here.

They don't know that two years ago I was raped by my biology teacher. They don't know that I had to spend all my savings on getting an abortion. They don't know the disgust I felt, the utter venom which stirred up inside me when I thought about me, my life. He still teaches me now. He knows I don't dare tell. He knows the power he has over me. He's the one who asks me to "see him at the end of the lesson" when everyone else has left, just so he can whisper more insults, suggestions and jeers into my ear. No one really notices the way his fingers brush against mine purposely when he hands out sheets. Then again, why should they? They just go along with their lives, not giving a crap about anyone else; parties and booze is what they live for.

Many a time I've thought about disappearing. Jumping off the bridge which runs over the motorway, about a mile from here. Swallowing all the paracetemols in the bathroom cabinet. Like my aunt. I don't have anything to live for. I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate the way I have to fake through every place I go to, smiles pasted onto my face so no one asks. I hate the way I fake a laugh to humour my friends.

I've built up my walls. No one's trying to break them down.