There was blackness, nothing, almost a void. Then suddenly light flooded the room revealing the plain white walls, ceiling, and floor. The only thing in it was the light along the wall farthest from the colorless, steel door. It opened, and there they stood, two large men in white hospital attire; each clutching the arms of a young girl. Her deep, brown hair, a veil hiding her pale face. She was limp, as though the only thing keeping her up were those beside her. They thrust the girl into the room. As her knees gave way and hit the floor, she heard the loud bang of metal against metal and the click of the lock.

Still on the ground, she edged over to a corner. Only then did she look up, scanning the walls and ceiling for security cameras. Satisfied with her search, a small grin spread across her face. She hunched over, her hands extended on the floor in front of her. Opening her mouth, she spat. A faint red speckled the floor and a small clatter of metal echoed slightly around the room. Her razor. She had spent the last two days deciding how to smuggle it in, now her planning had paid off. Of course, now she had a few cuts in her mouth, and probably couldn't eat properly for a week, but it was well worth it. This was her pride and joy, the only thing that kept her from completely loosing herself, and, on some days, as odd as it sounded, even from death.

Smiling, she pushed it far into the corner. 'For another time.' she thought. Now she focused on the band around her wrist. " Elizabeth Macauley " it read, " Sex: F Age: 16 Patient Number: 21046 ". This was her identity, and she hated it. With little effort, she pulled the band off her wrist, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room.

"Never again," she said to herself, the words like poison in her mouth, "Am I Elizabeth." She glanced back to her razor, now suddenly looking more welcoming than ever. But she pulled her gaze away from it. As much as she longed for it, she also hated it. It was a feeling indescribable by words. A feeling only those who have felt a blade run purposefully across their skin would know. A feeling, as much as she tried to explain to her family, the nurses, everyone; they never truly understood.

Anger now building inside her, she stood up and crossed to the far corner. Sitting down, she tried to focus on something, anything that would force her thoughts from cutting. But to no affect, the scars upon her arms and legs served as too strong a reminder. In the end, she decided it would be ok if she just thought about it, not the actual act of it, just the idea.

'Why was society so strongly against it,' she wondered, now quoting an old letter once given to her by a now nameless friend. Apparently, to justify her actions. 'After all, was it all that different from doing drugs? It's basically had the same effects: the feeling of sudden euphoria and after a while it was addicting. Hell, if anything its less damaging to you in the long run. No brain damage, no diseases. If anything, you're left with some scars and that's it. Assuming of course, you know what your doing and don't accidentally kill yourself. Which was highly unlikely, unless you actually want to die. But seriously, how many cutters actually commit suicide? Only like 10% right?'

There she sat in silence, thoughts buzzing furiously through her head. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, she cracked. Rushing over to her razor, she snatched it up and dragged it across her left forearm. The sight of her own blood made her smile. By her third cut she was laughing. It seemed that all that had ever troubled her had melted away.

The hallway was empty and the nurse's footsteps seemed to echo on forever. The sound bouncing off the white and grey tiling and cement walls. It was unusually quiet in the psych-ward, now that Elizabeth had been locked up in the White Room. Personally, she had thought it harsh to do that to the poor girl, after all there were plenty other patience with worse cases. But it's what the guardians insisted on. The nurse sighed; she almost missed Elizabeth 's arguing. Always refusing to be called by her name. "Rose," she had said, she always wanted to be called Rose.

Suddenly a piercing scream split the silence. Jumping in surprise, the nurse recognized that it came from down the hall, where the White Room was. She ran towards it. Reaching the open door, she realized that it was not Elizabeth who had screamed, but a fellow co-worker, an intern. Curious to why the intern was so distressed, she looked into the room. Letting out a gasp of horror, she stepped back.

The once blank walls now had red hand prints on them and were splattered with blood. Elizabeth herself lay in a heap in the far right corner, breathing heavily. But the most appalling sight was on the far wall, beneath the light three words written in blood. Words the nurse could recall perfectly even years later

I am Rose