She loved to watch it. The little red that caused so much trouble. It didn't matter that I had to deal with the consequences, as long as she got her red. That's what she used to call it. Her little red, but it always came from my veins. She had nothing to donate but she loved so much to take. As soon as she got the time she would open my flesh and watch the blood ooze out. Not that I ever complained, not while I was still on the ride.

It was after, when I walked out of a bathroom stall still bleeding to find there were other girls in there too. No one ever believed that I wasn't doing it, not that they said anything. I would tell them she did it and they would simply look into the empty stall, not realizing she was already far gone. The teachers were the same, ignored me as long as they could, trying not to laugh at my honest attempts to explain my innocence. I was sent to the counselors when they could no longer ignore it.

But even in the sessions she was close, listening, watching, laughing at them through me. She'd write them messages in my skin but I would never show them, not when I knew it would only lead to our separation and I couldn't have that. I needed her even if she only cause me trouble. No, she caused me the most serene moments of my sixteen years of life. She brought me peace and happiness if only for the few seconds while the injuries were too new to hurt.
Soon my parents got wise to the blood on my clothes then they discovered the scars too, but they had never met her, how could they think I would let some one do this to me, or even that I would do it to myself. They though I was being abused, and I told them about her, and they believed me. On the assumption that my homosexuality was the cause of all this disgusting self mutilation they sent me away. The place I went was bad. We didn't like it, neither of us.

They told me she wasn't real, that I couldn't have feelings like I did, that my mind was playing tricks on me. I didn't believe them and she'd meet me every night to leave her marks on me. Ending my days with sweet bliss was the only way I coped, it was going well. Then one night one of the priests heard something and they came peeping. She saw him and she was so vicious, she thought he was going to hurt me and she took care of him. Of course once he woke up he didn't remember ever seeing her, just me, so he thought I had hurt him.

I took my punishment and she stayed with me, but no one else ever saw her because she was only there for me. Even when I was hospitalized, they thought I was crazy, she came. My angel would sneak into my cell and hold me close. She couldn't always bring a knife but she always brought me something sharp. Each morning when the nurses found her marks they would sigh and search my room, upping my medication until I was barely ever conscious. Still, my lady would sing me to sleep, dragging a dull plastic fork across my skin to create angry red lines, the closest she could get to my long lost little red.

As the days dragged on she found it harder and harder to find me. She couldn't stand the loss of her little red and I was but a constant reminder. Soon she stopped coming altogether and I cried myself to sleep, my skin still pale white, unharmed. It was so strange to feel so alone and yet the world seemed different, less defined, like without her there to guide me nothing was simple. When I was released into my parents care once more I would look for her. I would cut, thinking she would some how know and come to see her little red. But I was not as strong as she was, I couldn't take the pain she used to inflict and my scars became old, healed and shiny.

I still open them up when I miss her most but she wont return to me, I betrayed her by becoming discovered. I abandoned her when I let them take me. She fought for me but I simply cried for her. I didn't do enough. If I were good enough she would come back to see her little red. But it's alright now because I have my own little red. I don't try and call her much anymore, I open up my own veins and see my little red friend.