Alive? Or Just Breathing?

For a while, Scarlett has been depressed. It started in Year 7 when Claire, her ever-changing boyfriends and her followers started bullying her. Scarlett has know for a while it is bullying, but doesn't know what to do about it. Can Drama and the new teacher, Miss Talbott help?


1. Chapter One

"Hey stupid! My boyfriend wants to use that wall as a goal. Beat it!" I jumped off the wall, collected my books and ran past Claire and her boyfriend, who appeared to have decided that he didn't want to play football any more, as the ball was rolling slowly away from him and he seemed very absorbed in trying to eat Claire's neck. With one last laugh at me, Claire turned around and rammed her face onto the lips of Adam, her boyfriend. It was hard not to be sick at the sounds they were making as I crept away.


"Ouch!" I yelped, as a small piece of potato hit the back of my head, hard. I heard laughing behind me, and didn't dare turn around or rub my head. I stared at my meager salad and blinked back tears. Another piece of potato hit my head, and I slumped forward, trying to shrink into nothingness. I felt kind hands of my shoulders, which gave me my bag, lifted me up and started to lead me away. I looked at the hands. I was sure I recognised them from somewhere. Were they a teacher's hands? No, too young and well kept - the teachers at school were all old bags who looked about a hundred. These were pretty. Perfectly manicured, with metallic shellac and French tips. It dawned on me where I had seen them before. And then the hands threw me on the ground. I fell onto my hands and knees with a painful thud, and my bag slid away from me. They weren't kind hands. They were the hands of the meanest girl in the school, and the person who had won 'Best Female Actor' every year in our stupid rewards ceremony since Year 7. I picked up my bag and the books that had fallen out, and rushed out of the hall, straight into a very pretty young woman looking at a map of the school.

"Hello, could you possibly tell me where the Arts block..." she started, then broke off. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yes, I'm fine." I looked over my shoulder quickly at Claire and her cronies staring daggers at me, whilst her boyfriend and his friends were yelling things like 'Cry-baby' and 'Coward'.

"Are you sure? You look like you've been crying." I started in surprise, and felt my face, to see that the tell tale tears were there. I wiped them away quickly, and began to walk off. She caught my shoulder and started pulling me back. "Do you want to come to my room and talk? I'm Miss Talbott, by the way..."

"N-no I, um, sorry," I turned away and stumbled over my words and feet simultaneously, rushing off round the corner. I could still hear Claire and her followers sniggering behind me.


I ran to the toilets and buried my head in my hands. My stomach growled. I had eaten about two bites of soggy, watery salad and I was famished. I had made a fool of myself in front of both Claire and Miss Talbott. I assume she's a new teacher. I wonder what she teaches? Not that it matters anyway. It's not like I'm any good at any lessons. I used to go to a Drama club when I was younger: it was about the only thing I could do. But I stopped soon after Claire started using me as her punching bag in Year 7. She was always the best actress, and any competition was squashed flat by either her words, or her constantly changing boyfriends' fists. I could never win. So I never even tried. I was rubbish compared to her anyway. She told me that often enough, when she found out I went to a club, and after I bit I realised what she meant. It wasn't worth any more trouble than I already was getting.


I got out my phone and hit the 'memo' icon. I typed in the password and opened the diary I kept on there. It was the only friend I had. Sometimes I just poured out everything to it, but others it was hard to keep myself from deleting it. I felt so pathetic and worthless. My only friend was a small computer. How ridiculous. When I had finished telling the pixels to arrange themselves so I could say how stupid I am, I put my phone away and got out the little piece of material at the bottom of my bag, wrapped around a small object. A small, sharp object. A small object that held my punishment, and my cure. I placed the material on my knee, and raised the small, sharp, shiny object above my arm where some scabbing scratches were. They could have been lots of scratches from an animal - maybe a cat. Could have been, but wasn't. I went through the rehearsed movement with ease, barely a whimper. Again. Again. Again. I did it until I could feel it. Always my reassurance, always to punish myself, always my escape. I wiped the object on the material, and wrapped it back up. I pushed it to the bottom of my bag, then I wiped my arm with toilet paper and slid my sleeve down. I hoped anyone who saw the bloodied tissue that didn't flush would just think it was someone on their period. I splashed water on my face before leaving the toilets.


Yes. I cut.

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