Saving Eliza.

Eliza is troubled. Her life is far from perfect, in fact it's so close to imperfect.

Oakley is Mr Perfection. He is everything anybody wanted. He's kind to most people, just not Eliza.

English class brings them together and could Oakley help Eliza with her troubles or will he totally ignore her like before?

Warning! Includes upsetting topics like self-harm, anxiety and anorexia. Please be aware it may upset some people.


3. Chapter 3: The Edge

Chapter 3: The Edge


The voices, they do come. Just like I said they would. 

You hear them? They think you're ugly. They hate you. You should probably just kill yourself right now. 

I clutch my hands to my ears to try and block out sound, that doesn't help. I still hear them. They taunt me. Annoy me. Take me to the edge. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. 

The voices get louder, drowning out anything else. My eyes are bloodshot and streaming. 

"Stop!" I cry to myself. I'm rocking backwards and forwards with my hands clasped around my bright red ears.

They keep going, ignoring all my protests. 

"STOP!" I scream loud enough to mute the voices and the rest of the class. 

Eyes are darting towards me and some more whispers begin. 

"She's crazy."

"She needs help!" 

"Wonder what her problem is?"

Not once voice asks if I'm okay. They all just tell me what I know. I already know my flaws, why should anyone have to point them out?

I grab my bag and run back to that red door that I hate. 

I don't even knock on the door. I burst through it, panting heavily as if I've just run a few miles. 

"Eliza?" The questioning voice of Mrs. Hollis is comforting.

"I need to go home." I sob`. 

"Tell me what's wrong." She asks. 

"No! Please just send me home!" I whimper. 

"I can't do that, Eliza. You know that."

"Please?" I beg. 

Mrs. Hollis shakes her head. 

"I am only sending you home for your safety." She says as she writes a note. 

"Thank you." I whisper as I walk out he door with the note and the thoughts of my blades at home. 


I throw my bag on my bed. I walk back over to my bedroom door and check the locks. I don't really need to check the locks. I'm an only child now and my parents are never home. After the accident, they busied themselves with work and forgot about me. Just like everyone else. I close the curtains, switch on the light and walk over to my bedside drawers. I search for the only thing I want. 

My blade. 

The silver of the metal shimmers in the light. The sharp edge gleams ready to cut my pale and sore skin. I look at the blade in the palm of my hand. It lies flat and perfect. 

My only friend. 

I take the silver piece of metal in between my finger and thumb. I hold it up to my left wrist which is covered in the harsh lines that my blade last left. I place the cold metal on my warm skin and press on. 

A pain starts to shoot through my wrist and arm. I swipe the blade forward quickly, creating a little cut. I wince then let out a contented sigh. 

It isn't enough though. 

I put the blade to my skin again and make another rip in my skin. And another and just one more. 

Four cuts. Each bleeding heavily. But the pain is good. It's the only thing I can control. 

I walk to my bathroom and grab an old, dark pink towel and hold it to my cuts, soaking up some of the blood. I take care of my wounds. I clean them, then dress them in pure white bandages. Through the bandages you can see a red speck that gradually gets larger. 

I scream in frustration and pull my long sleeves back down, hiding the wounds from the world. Same as I always do. 

I climb into bed and fall asleep thinking about how different life could have been. 

I could have been someone. I could have had a best friend or a boyfriend but instead, I was led in bed at quarter to three, with bleeding wrists and a heavy heart.

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