In The Shadows

Seventeen year old Lindsey Lamonté is just an ordinary teen girl going through high school.
When the schools most popular boy approaches her and attempts to befriend her, she finds herself falling for him. But little does she know he's hiding something. She soon finds out what this secret is, and is forced to fight for her life.

A/N: Hey! Thanks for reading this, if you do :) This description is very bad…so yeah :/ Uhm, I hope you enjoy!


1. Chapter One

I slice effortlessly through the sensitive skin on my wrist. The feeling gives me a rush of adrenaline. It gives you an out of body experience; it's as if I'm on the ceiling looking down on myself. All the pain gone. A high, and like a high. It never lasts. Which is the reasoning for why I have so many scars. I've been told to stop, or else my mother will send me away to a rehabilitation center. Which is the last thing I'd want.   I've been caught a countless number of times within the past few years, but she has never actually done anything. This makes me question the love she has for me.   I guess it's hard for her to fully grasp the fact her daughter constantly harms herself. Unless its you, you don't really ever understand.   I have run into a handful of people that do harm themselves, and understand. But the rest just find it disgusting and foolish.   My bedroom door swings open and my mother walks in.  


"Hi, Hun. I made you a sandwich." She says handing me a plate with an over stuffed sandwich sitting on it.  


I take it from her, a weak smile spread across my face.  


"Thanks." I say.  


She nods, and leaves my room, leaving me to do whatever.   I grab the small remote control off my night stand and flick the television on. A news reporter in a thin wind breaker clutches a microphone, almost having to yell because the wind is so strong. The camera slowly moves its view to a small brick house, where men in suits walk in and out. The FBI I presume.  


"This is the house where Rachel Zales was found dead, a suspected murder." The reporter yells into his microphone.  


I cringe at the word murder. It brings up terrible memories.   I shake the thoughts from my head, and continue to watch the TV. An FBI agent now stands next to him.  


"We advise anyone in the area, or neighbouring towns to lock doors windows or any other accessible way into your home, until we have found the cause of this." The FBI agent says looking back and forth between the reporter and the camera.  


I pick up the sandwich my mother brought me. The soft white bread sinks beneath my finger tips. I bite into it; mayonnaise, turkey, and lettuce fill my mouth. My favourite. I set it back down, and grab my phone. I'm not sure why I have one. I don't have any friends to message, and I never really leave the house. I'm pretty anti-social.  I mean, I barely talk to my mother.   I love her with all my heart, but our relationship isn't the strongest due to past events, and my cutting doesn't really help.   I remember when I was younger I always envied the girls who had strong bonds with their mom's. I've learned to accept the fact that I'll never be able to re-build what we once had...that I'll never get my family back. That's a large part of the reason I shove blades into my body. It's weird; I've questioned myself on it many times...why does physical pain ease the mental pain? Maybe they cancel each other out.   For a second time my door swings open.  


"Linds. We need to talk." She says, her eyes graze upon my unhidden scars.


  I quickly pull my sleeves down.  


"Yeah, sure. What is it?" I reply, avoiding eye contact.  


She sighs, and walks to the end of my bed. She sits down and puts her hands together.  


"I've been thinking about it for quite some time now...but I think it's about time I take action."   I already know what she's going to say.   


"I think you should start seeing a therapist, for your cutting." She pauses. "Please."


 I absolutely hate the idea of therapists...they think they get the human mind. But no one truly can, each one is different. Unique. It's just a waste of time and money.  


"Mom, a therapist wouldn't help." I tell her, looking into my hands.  


She sighs again.  


"Lindsey. This needs to stop. If I ever see it again, you will be going to a therapist." She reaches over and takes the last razor blade on my night stand.  


And with that, she leaves.  

I lie back, and stare at the ceiling.   I can't exactly just stop. It's like an addiction.   My eyes begin to droop with heaviness. I pull my comforter up to my chin, and slowly I drift to sleep.      


The sound of my alarm awakes me, just like every morning.   I smash the top with my fist.   One of these days I'm going to end up breaking it. I slowly sit up. I glance over to my alarm, the lime green digital numbers read; 7:02.  


"Ugh." I say out loud.  


I lay back down; I need to turn that stupid thing off during weekends.   I throw my body back down; the brightness of the sun annoys me. I can't sleep when it's so bright out. I angrily kick my blankets off, and reach for my razor. Oh right, my mother confiscated it. I groan, and trudge down the stairs.  


"Good morning." My mother says sweetly, as she flips through a book.


She casually reaches over and takes a sip from her coffee mug.   She is honestly one of the most elegant people I've ever seen. She's petite, and basically flawless. She has light blonde hair, bright blue eyes and porcelain skin. She looks like a more realistic version of Barbie, minus all the make up. Which is something she definitely doesn't need.   I, on the other hand have all of my father's features. Dark hair, dark eyes, manly hands. But of course instead of my dads olive skin tone, I have my mothers pale skin.  


"'Morning." I reply groggily.


I drag myself to the refrigerator and pull out some milk. I quickly pour a glass, and head back up stairs. I lean back in my black leather chair and flick on my ancient computer. As I wait for it to fully turn on I drink the milk I just retrieved from the fridge.  After about ten minutes of waiting for the stupid thing to load, I go on Facebook to laugh at all the drama.   But the first thing I notice is my bright red message box.  I never get messages... I hesitantly click on it. When I read the name of who sent it, I freeze. 

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