Walking self-consciously down the corridor, Jason could almost feel himself dissolving into the air with each step. It wasn't that it was a bad school or anything, it was just his own social awkwardness that made him an outcast. Or that's how it felt to him anyway. Sighing, he thumbed up the volume on the cd-walkman in his pocket, My Chemical Romance drowning the usual lunchtime scuffles and shouts. He was supposed to be in detention with Mr Daniels, but he couldn't bear to sit there in the withdrawal room with the other kids. And he hadn't meant to talk back, it had just slipped out.

Anyway, he doubted that anyone would even notice he wasn't there. That's how he felt much of the time these days anyway, invisible, completely surplus to requirements. And he had more important things to do right now. Taking a sharp left behind the science building, Jason stealthily ducked behind the fence. Here at least he could relax a little, alone he was free to be himself more than he ever could be, even with his best friends. Pulling a crumpled pack of smokes from his jeans pocket, he exhaled loudly. He was already riding his third warning for smoking on school premises. He didn't mean to always get in so much trouble, it just seemed to happen, his father would kill him if he got another letter sent home from school. Last time the school had phoned... well he didn't want to think about it.

He was just crushing the cigarette under one heel, when he heard Mark whistle. He smiled a little, they'd been friends since their first detention together, back in their first year. But Mark wasn't smiling back, in fact he looked pretty upset.

"Hey" Jason nodded, "S'up?"

Mark ran one hand through his messy dyed black hair. Pulled his own smokes out of his jacket pocket.

"I'm in shit." He said, lighting up in one graceful motion.

"Why?" Jason asked, "What happened?"

"Look, you got to promise you won't say anything, I mean like, to anybody, right?"

Jason nodded, if it was this serious he sure wouldn't spill it. Mark sighed, then rolled up the sleeve of his red and black stripy t-shirt.

"You promised remember." He said, in an unnaturally quiet voice.

Jason stared. He couldn't help himself, he could barely believe it. Marks forearm was a mess of fine red lines, scabbed and ugly, cuts, some of them obviously deep.

"Who...?" He could barely get the words out. "Who did that to you?"

Mark was avoiding his eyes as he answered slowly.

"I did."

It took Jason a moment to comprehend, but then it hit him with the force of an express train.

"Holy shit, you did that to YOURSELF? But Why? Are you ok?"

Mark nodded, and rolled the sleeve down again. It suddenly occurred to Jason that he hadn't seen his friend in short sleeves for a long time. Now he knew why.

"I know it sounds crazy, and you'll probably think I'm nuts, but it helps me, I have to do it. Sometimes it's the only way I can get through the day... I guess it's hard to understand unless you do it."

Jason nodded, that made sense. He'd heard of this kind of thing before, on TV, a long time ago. But... His best friend, that was different. He wished he could think of something to say. Just then though, the bell for lessons rang, and they both picked up their bags and ran. No point being in more trouble for being late.

Jason didn't have any lessons with Mark that afternoon, so they didn't have chance to talk, and when the home time bell rang, Mark wasn't waiting to walk home with him. Jason walked home alone, his head full of blood and worry, his head down the whole way. It wasn't that he was disgusted, or shocked, he still wanted to be friends with Mark. The problem, and he was almost ashamed to admit it, the problem was, that he was curious. He wanted to know how it felt to do that to yourself, to bleed by your own hand.

The house was silent when he arrived home, a note stuck to the fridge read 'Home by eight, love Mom'. That gave him four hours. Four hours alone, to think. And he couldn't stop thinking either. Four hours was plenty of time to... To what? Learn how to cut himself? Hurt himself? He didn't even need to ask himself the questions though. He knew he was going to try it. He'd known he would the moment he'd understood what Mark had done. Hadn't they
always shared everything after all?

He went to the bathroom almost in a trance, the air thick and syrupy around him. He could feel every beat of his heart through the fragile ribcage. He thought he could even feel the pulse in his wrists, the pulse he was about to spill. The packet of razor blades in the cabinet was easy to break open, though his hands shook in... what? Fear? Anticipation? Maybe both.

Carefully, he rolled back one sleeve, tenderly cradled the blade in damp fingers. Did he dare? But the questions was already pointless. He barely felt the sting as the edge of the blade bit into the smooth flesh of his wrist, barely registered the sharp bite of metal on skin. All he felt was the warmth, and peace, and quiet in his mind. And he knew what Mark had been talking about.

He just knew.