I was bored out of my mind and gazing out the window. Outside white clouds painted the sky and the hot sun glowed bright in the the sea of blue like a huge candle, setting the whole world on fire. It was a beautiful summer day, and my attention turned to the ground. The green grass barely visible under the swarm of kids outside, playing football and talking and running around. I envied those outside on such a nice day. Lucky for me I just had to get detention today, although I am not sure why I am surprised because I get detention every day.

I turned away from the picture perfect display outside and slumped in my chair. I think my chair had shaped itself to my butt, as I have sat in it every day since the beginning of school. I tapped my pencil on my desk, ignoring what the teacher, Mrs. Stevenson, was saying about school rules and not using kids as basketballs'. Hey! He deserved it! His ugliness made me laugh too hard and I split my ice cream cone!

The door opened slowly and in walked little Violet Sadler, with a detention notice in her hand, and a pile of text books cuddled to her chest. How on earth did Violet Sadler get detention? How could little miss perfect grades get a detention? I it's true, because she hands Mrs. Stevenson the slip and heads straight for a desk at the back. She walked down my isle slowly, as if she wished that if she walked slow enough everyone would forget about her and ignore her. Unfortunately, people didn't ignore her. Especially the guy sitting in front of me when he tripped her. Violet went sailing into the air and so did the pile of books in her arms. They flew through the air and scattered. All I had time to do was shut my eyes before the books fell right on top of me.

The sounds of howling laughter broke out and I opened my eyes and unclenched my fists. Violet was lying on the ground, with her face pressed to the floor, but it did not muffle the pitiful sounds of her sobbing. I looked around and all the other kids had turned to stare at her. The sounds of their hollow laughter filled the room, but I could not bring myself to laugh at the poor girl. All of my anger flooded out of me when I saw her raise her head. Her face was a river of tears and her eyes were blood shot. She quickly gathered her books from my desk and ran from the classroom, the sounds of laughter stalker her as she raced down the hall.

Before I could think, my hand was raised and I was asking, "Mrs. Stevenson? Can I go to the bathroom?" And was walking quickly down the hall and straight towards the girls washroom. Even before I opened the door I could hear the almost muted muffles of Violet crying. I opened the door and the crying suddenly stopped. I slowly walked across the stalls searching for feet. Finally I found the worn, beaten up sneakers that belonged to Violet. I opened the stall and saw her. She was sitting on the toilet seat, head down , her face barley visible behind her wall of tangled brown hair. She lifted her head with dignity and whipped the tears from her face. "Are you here to laugh at me too, Scarlet?" She sneered.

I shook my head slowly, immediately shocked and a little proud that she would have the courage to stand up to someone like me. "No," I whispered.

"Then why are you here?" she asked brutally, but this time she did not mask her fear as well. I could hear the croak in her voice.

Once again I shook my head. "I am not sure," I said simply.

She starred at me, dumbfounded. She sighed, "Well if you have no reason being here..." She says and stands and tried to push past me. I let her pass me and she is almost out of the bathroom when I catch her shoulder and spin her around.

"Why?" I ask.

Confusion if written all over her face. "Why what?" she asks.

"Why are you always to your self? Always crying?" I explain.

She purses her lips, trying to decide whether or not to tell me. She leans against a porcelain sink and sighs. "You really want to know?" she asks.

I nod.

She sighs again, and begins to explain. "I have never had a friend in my life ever. Every one always avoided me, called me weird, strange. I was never really close with my parents either. My dad beats me if I don't do well in school or if I talk back. My mom never knew because I am too afraid to tell her. My mom and dad recently got divorced, and I live with my dad now. After the divorce he began drinking a lot. I usually find him drunk and he beats me hard enough to leave marks." She lifts her sleeve to reveal her entire arm covered in black an blue splotches. Some were fading but others looked very new and very hard. She pushes her sleeve down roughly and crosses her arms, as if ashamed of the marks. She is trying to hide it but tears are swelling up in her eyes/ "I am afraid if someone found out ... that they would make fun of me more." She says and turns away, but I know she is crying. I lower my head, thinking of my own painful experiences in my life. Not near close to as bad as hers. "Hey listen. I am so sorr-" I begin to say but she cuts me off.

"Don't apologize," she whispers, still turned around.. "There is nothing you can do." She shakes her head.

My mind I a tornado of thoughts. Should I tell her? It asks. What if she tells someone? I have been keeping this secret for so long? What if someone were to find out?

I am about to leave and pretend I never had this talk with this shy little girl, but when she turns back to me, I change my mind. She is trembling with fear and sorrow, trying to hold back tears but not succeeding.

Before I even know what I am doing, I am blurting out my story. I tell her that my father died when I was only 9 years old, and how my mom married a horrible man. I tell her how my step-father is cheating on my mother, and I am the only one who knows and I haven't the strength to tell her, because I am afraid my step-father will yell at me or hit me. I tell her how I used to be bullied in my old school, and how even though I am a bully now, I only do that because I am afraid I will be bullied again.

And then I show her my arm.

I would expect her to gasp when she say how my arm was decorated in scars and fresh cuts, but her expression doesn't change and she looks like she sees this stuff every day. Compared to her bruises, this looks like a small setback. But to me it looks like I ran over my arm with a lawn mower, and her arm looks like a train ran over it again and again.

I sit up on the sink. "I know I shouldn't do it," I confess. "But sometimes it just feels like the only way to get rid of the pain. It's like with every drop of blood that is spilled, there goes some of the hurt. But the difference is that the pain and the hurt will always stay, even if the cuts are temporary."

Violet sits beside me. "It's okay," she whispers, putting her head on my shoulder. "Everything will be okay"

And some how I believe her.

That was the day I met someone who was so different from me, but we were alike in a way only each other could understand. Together, we called the police and got Violets father arrested for child abuse, and her mom moved to her dad's house to take care of Violet.

Eventually, with Violets help, I told my mom about my step-father cheating on her, and they are now divorced, which is fine with me because I never liked him anyway. Now my mom and I are living alone and we have vowed to tell each other everything. I stopped cutting and now all that's left are scars, which remind me every day of the horrible life I used to have.

Who had ever though that two people so different, a shy, quiet girl and the schools bully, could become such great friends, and help each other make new, better lives for each other? It sounds like something out of some kind of sick, twisted fairy tale, but like every fairy tale, this one had a happy ending too.