Nobody was home. Salty droplets of tears carrying flakes of mascara in them trickled steadily down her already slick cheeks. Her bedraggled bun loosened itself further with every bang of her head against the wall.
Hiccoughing, she pulled a little razor blade from under her mattress and fumbled with it as she pushed up her sleeve, exposing an underarm slashed with ugly scars. Some were faded and greyish purple. Some were fresh, swollen, and pink. A couple were still bleeding--tiny pinprick-sized drops of ruby-red liquid. There were so many that altogether, only about a square centimetre of pale, unmarred skin showed through.
With a small, shivering sob, she slowly drew the blade across her skin, almost reopening a healing scar in the process. She watched without emotion as blood oozed up from the wound, chest rising sharply in tremors as an aftereffect of crying.
After a minute or two, she got up and stowed the razor blade away under her mattress, seating herself at her desk in front of the pile of overdue homework. A few hours later, her parents returned home to find their daughter tucked in bed and sleeping dreamlessly as usual.
It was just a regular Tuesday evening.
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