She Is Like Many Others

Sorry, these stories may be triggers.
A group of true stories that many people face in life. Written in the third person so that they are more relatable and more anonymous. Some of them are things that have happened to me and others to people to know so I hope you enjoy the brutality of life for a teenage girl.


1. Bright Eyes

A pair of bright eyes open in the clean, fresh morning. Lungs breath in the cool air. Fingers curl around the duvet and pull it up around a sleepy face. A girl rolls over, hiding from the fate of yet another day. Dragging herself out of bed, preparing herself to face her fears, she gets dressed and stumbles routinely to the bathroom. She doesn't know why she bothers with her hair and her makeup since she tells herself everyday that she doesn't care what other people think of her. Nevertheless she tries and tries again to perfect her appearance. She paints a smile across her face so she can face the rest if the world, but it does not reach her eyes. 

She closes the front door; she can't turn back now. Her music caresses her ears, the song becomes her mood as she walks onwards. She becomes numb to the outside world and more absorbed in her thoughts. As she glides through the school gates she is greeted by smiling friends, laughing and conversing about their weekends. She was self-absorbed all weekend, she did nothing interesting yet again. She spends her weekends deep in thought  but when she asks herself what about she has no clue. Her mind just works on without the rest of her body. 

She puts on a smile, her outer shell shows people what they want to see: a young girl who is happy with herself. Someone confronts her, pushes her down, and her shield breaks. She is exposed. The figure she can't look in the eye breaks her down with simple words. Others around laugh, they see her pain as a joke. Continue she must, she moves along, acting as if it never happened. She remembers. She remembers every occasion every night. The day continues and she submerges back into her shell, until she can shrug off her fake identity at home. 

She lies awake each night, her tears dampen the pillow as she curls up to try to escape the turmoil in her head. To reach across to her bed side table or not? To pick up the sharp nail scissors, illuminated by the moon, or not? To release her pain or not? To risk someone seeing her marked skin or not? Her brain fumbles for a clear answer, and in her moment of  uncertainty she looses control of herself. She reaches over, she picks up the scissors and she lays out her fore arm. The blades glance across her soft skin which gives in easily. A line of red appears where the blade was a few seconds ago. She repeats it again until her tears subside and sleep overcomes her. She feels content. Her troubles erased.

A pair of bright eyes open, they are always brighter after she has broken her skin. She feels relieved and relaxed. She shrugs off the truth that the pressure will only build again and she will repeat what she's done or that maybe someone will find out because she doesn't care. She cares only that she will feel free for another short amount of time.  

She feels the pressure to succeed and do well in every aspect if life. She feels insecure and bound to her imperfections. She does not realise her imperfection make her herself and her scars on her arms show her strength and determination to last another day. 

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