Hey, this is just something that I wrote a little while ago and just found and edited a bit. Figured i'd put it up and see what you think.

Handle With Care and Amelia belong to Jodi Picoult, I just borrowed for my own (and hopefully your) entertainment :)

This is how it goes.

You promised it would never happen again. You know it's stupid and wrong but it just happens. By now it is a part of your life, essential as eating or drinking.

It always starts the same. The hurt comes from different places; sometimes you're not even sure what triggers the need. There is no-one to talk to now, your friends were actually all hers, simply suffering your presence. Your 'best friend' now couldn't care less. Thinking back though, you realise you were always expendable, someone to be used and then thrown away when she was done. No-one cares. You have no real friends, you don't really have any friends now, not after all this. Real or fake. No-one could care what happens to you. Talking about it at home is also not an option, they care even less. Everything bad that happens is hidden from view. As they always say, 'out of sight, out of mind...'

You can't do it anymore. You don't want to be here, you can't be here anymore. Not now. You think "this will be the last time" but you know even as you smash the case and pick up the blade, winking at you in the dim light, that it won't. In order for it to change, something else must change first.

You hold the small sharp piece of metal in your hands, remembering the last time. Without thinking you pull up your sleeve drawing the cold metal against the warm skin of your forearm, the skin that is pale and drawn, barely healed from last time. You see the beads of red, welling up from beneath the skin. You feel the sharp lash of pain and it feels good, so good. It hurts but it is a pain that makes sense. You wonder what made you want to stop in the first place. You do it again, again. Again. You do it until there is a slick layer of red covering your arm, until you feel the pulse throbbing against the broken skin. It feels right.

With every new slice, you begin to forget yourself. The pain helps you to block what happened from your mind and you are grateful for it. Without the pain you would be lost. With every new slice you think about what you would change about yourself. If you were prettier, thinner, more popular. And the most important... happy. The pain helps you block it from your mind and it feels right, well makes you feel better than before, as if some of the hurt has been let out through the parts in your skin.

A creak of floorboards outside the room pulls you back to yourself. You look at what you have done and watch the blood pooling on your wrist. You grab a tissue and watch the blood seep into the crisp white square, staining it.

The bleeding has mostly stopped by now but the sting remains, reminding you of what you did. You are grateful for it, the pain that makes sense. You look around and spot the piece of metal lying on the floor where you must have dropped it. You pick up the blood-spotted blade and wipe it off. You pull your sleeves down, covering the fresh cuts. You store the blade away, even as you tell yourself that that was the last time, because you know it won't. Nothing will change so you will not stop. Because it feels right, so right. Because you can't do this anymore. Because you don't want to be here anymore, and one day, you won't. That thought is all that keeps you going.

Waiting for that day

Thanks for reading, all reviews are much appreciated, I love all suggestions and hints for improving and love to hear what you guys thought about it.