She is everyone, and no one. She doesn't even have a name, because every day she is in a new life. She doesn't know who she is...or was. All she knows is the pain of these other girls, these living girls, the suffering girls.

She wants to know who she really is...but what will it take to find out?

WARNING: This Movella contains rape, bullying, suicide, abuse, self-harm, and other sensitive elements.


3. Casey

Casey Kelly Smith’s life looks pretty good. It takes me a while to find what her problem is. Casey is beautiful with her shiny blonde hair and deep green eyes and clear skin. She has two healthy parents, an adorable little sister, and even a black cat with the cutest meow I have ever heard. She’s not poor, and not super rich, just right in the perfect zone that allows nice clothes and electronics but prevents snobby behavior. She has a great group of friends, and a boyfriend who respects and cares deeply for her. Perfect, or so it would seem. I’m very confused as I mill around her room. Her phone has just informed me that she doesn’t have school today due to snow, allowing me to really figure her out.

I finally find the darkness sitting under her bed.

Razors. A whole box of them, gleaming bright and sharp.

As I look at them, horrified, a sudden pulse of need runs through my body - through Casey’s body. I may the current occupant, but I am only temporary, and not all of these thoughts are mine. An image flashes of my hand caressing a blade, then digging it into my thigh. I close my eyes and quickly stuff the box back under the bed. My fumbling hand finds more secrets. Pills, sleeping and antidepressant. Then I pull the box out. It’s very basic, a shoebox painted black and covered with a dark blue lid. Inside, photos scatter themselves in a puddle of memories that I wish I didn’t have to encounter. She’s documented every self-inflicted injury in a gruesome collection of over a hundred photos. Cuts, burns, bruises. On the back of each photo is a description of how she created the injury. Tears suddenly burst from my eyes. I quickly stuff the photos back into the box and shove everything back under the bed, scrambling away. A single sheet of paper now remains in my hand.

I want to leave this life. I want this day to be over. I don’t want to see this, the dark side of Casey Smith that no one knows exists. She’s been doing this for five years, and no one knows. How does no one know? How could she have been so good at hiding?

By being the sunshine child. She is the good girl, the popular girl, the smart girl, the perfect girl. No one would suspect her of anything, so no one bothers looking.


I sit in the corner between Casey’s bed and one of the sky-blue walls of her room, sobbing. Surely, there’s something I can do. I could tell. Show her parents the pictures, the scabs that I know are still sitting on her hips, the scars that line her thighs where no one will see because she wears skirts that are a safe length and hates bathing suits without skirt or shorts. I can help her...but what if it really just makes her life worse? I can feel the pulsing monster in her mind that pushes her to do these things. It is addiction and greed and masochism with little shards of insanity. Can it really be controlled or stopped?

I look at the piece of paper in my hand. There is one more secret to Casey, that one person is aware of. According to a Dr. Taft, Casey is pregnant. That would explain the mild nausea I’ve been feeling all morning. I can see how Casey was planning on hiding it, too. She wrote on the bottom of the paper. Stork’s Nest Planned Parenthood Clinic. Appt. for Tuesday @ 3pm.

Abortion. It would be as though the life inside her never existed.

The tears flow stronger. Oh, Casey, you poor girl. You live your perfect life and let nothing stand in your way.


I have to intervene. I’m here now. And I won’t let Casey do this to herself.

But...what if I only make things worse for her?

Telling her parents about the secrets under the bed would shatter the perfect illusion that is Casey Smith. She wouldn’t be the sunshine girl, she would be the masochist, the murderer. She would be sick, twisted, insane, irresponsible, imperfect.

I can’t do that to her, can I? She’ll be so confused tomorrow, waking up covered in broken glass. She’ll think, There’s no way I was crazy enough to tell! Why?!


I wipe the tears from my face, stand, and gaze into the mirror. Despite the tears, Casey still has the face of an angel.

A fallen angel.

I tuck the paper back into the box under the bed.

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