This story contains themes of mental health, including bullying, trauma, and self-harm. It is written to raise awareness and provide insight—not to promote or glorify these issues. Reader discretion is advised. This book is intended for readers 18 and older.
"Why do you hate me so much? Why!?" the little girl screamed at the top of her lungs.
"Because you're a useless piece of trash. Because of you, I can never find love. You always try to take them from me—but not this time."
With those words, the older women grabbed the child by her hair, yanking her forward. "You want attention so badly? Fine. Let me give it to you, you little pest." She dragged the girl across the room and threw her inside, slamming the door shut and locking it.
"PLEASE! PLEASE, OPEN THE DOOR! I'LL BEHAVE! PLEASE LET ME OUT... please..." The child collapsed against the door, sobbing as she clawed at the wood.
"Violet... Violet..."
"VIOLET!"
"AHH! What the—? You scared me, girl!" I gasped, jolting upright.
"You were lost in thought again. What were you thinking about?" Sam asked, concern lacing her voice as she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I quickly shrugged her off. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."
"You know you can't lie to me, right? Was it another flashback?"
"Sam, I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about me."
As the bell rang, we gathered our things from our lockers.
And then—
"Well, well, look what we have here."
No. No, please, not them. Not again...
"A loser and a suicidal freak," one of the boys sneered. "Still thinking about offing yourself? You'd be doing us all a favor."
Laughter erupted around him.
"Can you stop being a dick for five minutes?" Sam snapped, standing up for me. I knew this wouldn't end well.
The boy smirked. "What was that, Sam? Don't tell me you actually care about her? Have you forgotten who you were before she came along?" He leaned closer to her before turning his gaze to me.
And then, in a hushed whisper, he murmured, "You should just go kill yourself already. No one likes you. You're nothing. So go cut yourself—since that's the only thing you're good at."
His words hit me like a knife to the chest. Tears blurred my vision. I couldn't take it—I ran. Like a coward, I ran to the bathroom, hiding my tears behind locked doors.
My hands trembled as I dug through my backpack, fingers curling around the cold steel of a cutter. Without thinking, I dragged the blade across my skin—first my arms, then my thighs. Blood trickled down, staining the sink as I leaned over, trying to steady my breathing.
"I hate you... I hate you... I hate you!"