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Hidden destruction.
The next day I awoke sore and indescribably angry with myself. Peeling back blood soaked layers I scrutinised the damage done, trying hard to convince myself that the scars and mutilations were worth it for the momentary spark of life and happiness that ensued. With a sigh I replaced the coverings and set about preparing myself for the day, running a brush haphazardly through my hair and carefully selecting a shirt and jumper baggy enough to hide the layers.
Arriving at school I forced a smile and slid into my usual seat in the school library, fighting to act as though I was as excited as the rest about a party a friend Val was organising for the following night. I smiled and smiled until my cheeks ached, discussed outfits and ice cream, films and fun until I was blue in the face. Eventually I was released from the conversation by the form bell and hurried off, finally letting my face fall into familiar frown lines.
I was sure that this party would do nothing to improve my mood. Nothing helped besides self destruction. Subtly I reached for my left arm and gave the cuts a hard squeeze, a small reminder of my only island in the storm.
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