Fake Smile. Real Pain.

When she started she only used a pair of scissors and only made a few small cuts. But she didn't cut on her wrist. Not her thighs, not her arms, not her stomach. In a weird place but it's easy to hide, her feet. They were small, only looked like she got scratched by a small dog. Now? Well now she cuts on her wrist, arms, legs, stomach, thighs. Bigger and a little deeper.

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1. Chapter 1

I slide the blade across my wrist, pain shooting through my body and I scream out in pain and pleasure. I do it a second time, third time, fourth, over and over. Tears run down my cheeks, dripping of my chin onto my fresh cuts and old scars. I sit there on the floor in the corner of my room remembering how this started.

All of this started when I was twelve (I'm sixteen now) and my great grandma died in her sleep during the summer. I didn't cry until the funeral.

*Flashback*

"Morgan, get up." My dad said shaking me out of my dream.

I open my eyes a little only to become blind by the sun that was shining in though my window. "I'm up." I mumble as I sit up and search for my phone.

"Get ready so we won't be late." He says before walking out of my room.

I check my phone but no one texted me. Probably because it's summer and none of my friends get up at eight in the morning cause they are lazy. I slip out of my bed and wiggle my toes into the carpet. I yawn and stretch before I dig around in my closet for something to wear. I don't wear dresses so that's out of the question on what to wear. I finally find my favorite pair of skinny jeans and a black tank top. I pull out my light blue jean jacket and quickly change. I slip on some sock and then walk out of the room and into the bathroom. My bathroom is small but it good enough for me. I quickly toss my hair into a messy pony tail before walking out and asking, "What time do we have to be there?"

My dad looks away from the computer and look at me, "Ten and we have to leave at nine."

"So that pretty much mean I better get my shoes on?" I say. Oh, what a stupid question.

"Yes." He responds before slipping on his own shoes. I walk into my room and shove my feet into my shoes before exiting my room and entering the living room. "Ready?" He asks standing by the door. I nod.

****

The entire time I held back tears, my nose running and my breathing uneasy. Not exactly paying much attention to what the guy up front was saying but paying attention to all the other people, sniffling and crying, freely letting tears fall. The entire time I thought about memories with my great grandma. The entire time my mom and grandma kept rubbing my thighs to try to calm me down.

But right now, I just got home. Remembering everything that happened I make my way to my room. "Morgan, I'm going to work." My dad shouts before I hear the door slam shut. I lay on the bed and let the tears fall, I hate crying but I do it all the time. "Well, your just a cry baby aren't you?" I mutter to myself as I sit up and look around my room. I'm thinking about one thing that I never thought of before, self harm. None of my friends self harm, I know no one who self harms but it's just something that popped into my mind. I heard that people who self harm do it to make them feel better. Well, I feel horrible right now. Looking around the room, one thing catches my eye, scissors. Their calling my name and I can't help but pick them up. Will this hurt? I don't like getting hurt.

I think of a good place to cut, my foot. That's a good place! No one will see unless my socks are off. I take my sock off and look at my foot before I take the scissors and slide it across my skin. Pain shooting through my body as my jaw tightens, "That hurts." I mumble but then there is a little part of my that screams, 'No, it feels good. Keep doing it.' Staring down at my foot I see a tiny bit of blood, not a big deal. I do it again and then again. It's like giving yourself  a paper cut, it bleeds a little unless you really dig into your skin but I'm only making scratches.

*Flashback Over*

Remembering that, I was only twelve, scared to hurt myself and to afraid to use an razor blade or knife. I look down at the razor blade I'm holding, "It changed quite quickly." I whisper and then I hear someone running down the stairs. Shit, I forgot they were coming home! I start to panic, wiping off the blood with the towel sitting next to me and wiping the tears away. Taking a deep breath before my step sister who is 14 runs into the room, she has always had an attach to me and I never understood why. I put on a fake smile as she starts to talk to me but I honestly zone out.

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