Clara got home around n hour before her mom, just like she usually did.
At around 10 p.m Clara was exhausted after doing hours and hours of homework, so she decided to get ready for bed.
All of a sudden she could hear her mom yelling at her sister. Great. She thought.
Clara heard her mother stomp all the way through the house and down the stairs towards her. Her mother stopped in her tracks when she saw Clara in her pajamas, putting her hair up. She seemed to lose all thoughts of what she had stormed downstairs for.
"What do you think you're doing?" She asked viciously.
"Going to bed." Clara rolled her eyes.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" Her mother spat. "You're definitely not going to sleep yet. I'm sure you have homework of some sort to do. With those awful grades you should be doing all the studying you can! You're failing everything, you'll never get into College with those marks, let alone University."
Anger flare up inside of Clara. "First of all University won't look at my grade 10 marks, and I'm not failing everything! I have 50's and 60's, sure, but I also have an 83 in business!" She screamed beck.
"I already told you, don't you dare talk to me like that! this is all because of your friends! Ever since you've been hanging out with them your a different person, you're a bad child! All of you're friends are bad influences on you, hopefully you won't be friends with them for much longer." Her mother grabbed her by the arm with both hands before storming back up the stairs.
A few tears ran down Clara's face as she examined the red marks from where her mother's fingers had dug into her skin.
She turned to her room and walked straight over to her bed, but instead of curling up under her covers to cry, Clara wiped the tears fro her cheeks and lifted the corner of her mattress. Tucked under the mattress sat several pieces of metal, a few blades from pencil sharpeners, a couple twisted up pieces of metal, and a knife. She picked up one of the blades then let the mattress fall back into place. Clara took a seat a top the bed now. Clenched in her right fist, she could feel the blade digging into her skin. It stung, but in a good way. Clara opened her fist before she could break the skin of her hand.
With the blade in her right hand, she traced lines on her left wrist, over and over again. The more cuts there were, the more her arm stung, the less thoughts ran through her mind. Certain things still managed to come through.
Worthless. Clara slid the metal along her arm, slowly, tracing a long, thin cut that started to bled instantly.
Bad kid. Once again, the cold metal ran along her wrist.
Slut, whore, druggy. The insults from people at her school joined the insults her mom has said, and with each word, another cut.
Clara withdrew the blade from her skin quickly, sweat dripping down her forehead, and she let out a loud gasp.