In the light of a burning candle she lay on her bed, bleeding.

"Sounds delicious," she answered her mother sarcastically.

She was tall and slender. Her long raven-hair was pulled back, her= alabaster skin was fair, her lips scarlet. She wore a pleated skirt, a long sleeved shirt, and sandals with knee-highs.

"Well, you need to sit down to eat Bente," her mother said as she was placing the plate of food on the table.

Bente put her sweater on the back of the chair and sat down. She pulled up her sleeves and put her left arm under the table. She picked up the fork with her long pallid fingers and poked the sausage. She wasn't very hungry.

"Well I have to go to work. I'll be home around seven tonight, I'll bring home some food. Don't leave too late. Okay, bye sweety," her mother said as she was walking out of the kitchen. "Have a nice day. I love you."

"Okay Mom, I got it! Bye!" she replied. Bente got up as she heard the front door close. She got her bag and car keys, headed to the garage, started her car, and went to school.

As she was walking down the corridor to homeroom, she could feel her wounds against her sleeves. She smiled timidly. The bell rang before she was at the door, she was late. As she was walking to her seat, her teacher was staring at her.

"Bente, I'll need to talk to you after class," said Mrs. Smith, her English teacher. As Mrs. Smith rambled on about William Blake, Bente was writing in her journal. Now when I see the blood I feel a sense of relief. Why don't I feel pain? Instead, it feels like it's coming out, being released.

The bell rang; everyone was going to their next class. Bente stayed put.

"You do realize you're doing poorly in my class, don't you?" asked Mrs. Smith.

"Yes."

"What's wrong? You were an exceptional student. But recently you stopped doing your work and just write in that journal of yours. Something wrong at home that I can help you with?" Mrs. Smith asked curiously.

"No. Everything's fine. Why should I be talking about anything with you? May I go now?"

"It's good to talk things out. I'm just trying to help."

"Well I don't need your help! May I go now?"

"Uh," Mrs. Smith looked astounded by what Bente said. "Yes, you may go. I'll write you a pass."

Bente left the class and headed for gym. Hopefully no one is in the locker room anymore she thought. With her luck, it was still full with girls changing. She didn't know many of them. The ones she did, didn't speak to her. She tried to change as fast as she could, she didn't want anybody to notice her. But no one ever did. When she was looking for her sweater, she couldn't find it.

"Dammit!" Bente yelled.

The girl close by looked at her funny and asked what was wrong. Bente said nothing.
The whole hour she folded her arms. It's not like she participated anyways.

"Hey, you, why don't you play with us?" asked a short young looking girl. Her brown hair bounced off her shoulders as she walked up to Bente. She pulled her by the arm towards the volleyball net. The girl gasped when she noticed deep scars, and fresh wounds, on her arms.

She couldn't believe someone found out her secret. She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. She had nothing to cut herself with; she used her finger nails to tear her flesh. She wanted to see the blood, wanted to feel. Wanted to know she was human.

Once class was over, everyone in the locker room was whispering as they passed by her sitting on a bench. Bente knew they were talking about her. She just grabbed her clothes and bag, and ran out of there. As she was going towards the doors, someone yelled, "Get help, you psycho!" She recognized the voice; it was Patricia, someone she was very close to, before.

She ran to her car and drove home. Her eyes were blurry from the t= ears. She was holding them in, she hasn't cried since she was ten. She refused to.

The blood was trickling down her arms. When she scratched herself, she opened up old wounds.

When she got home, she ran up to her room. She tried so hard to calm herself down. Her pain was unbearable.

If I could kill myself, I could stop hurting.

She got her journal and wrote.

I cut myself to see if I could bring out the person that I wanted to be, make myself feel better emotionally. I don't feel good abou who I was or am. I wanted to feel this extra pain, so I could be in control. Isn't it ironic? It's controlling me.

Bente put her journal and pen down and held up a razor blade.

Her mother came home and noticed it was too quiet when she put the food down in the kitchen. She went up to Bente's room. The do= or was ajar, she walked in. Once inside, she noticed her own daughter's body. She gave a scream which pierced the air.

She walked up to Bente's dresser and found her journal. Then she lit a candle when she finished reading the last entry, and walked out sobbing.

In the light of a burning candle she lay on her bed, bleeding.