"My name is..well, lets just call me Lucy. I self-injure. I was 13 when I started cutting.I started one day in Science class. It was a Friday. I know it sounds dumb, but I was really mad at myself, I don't remember why, and I wanted to do something really bad, something that I would remember for a long time, to remind myself of what a monster I was. I had discovered that the small mirror that I carried around with me in my backpack had smashed, a victim of my complete idiocy, but I had never bothered to clean up. I sat in the back of the room, in a corner, all by myself, and no one ever paid attention to me.

I pulled that sucker out of my bag, the biggest, sharpest peice I could find and just held it for a little while. I wasn't sure whether I should do it or not, I mean, I'm not the adventurous type. I hate taking risks, and I get really scared that I'll do something wrong. So I thought about it. This was definitely wrong, I knew that from the second the thought occured to me to do it, but this seemed to be an okay kind of wrong. I wanted this, I wanted to hurt. I needed it. I deserved it, and everyone would agree with me on that one.

I glanced around to make sure that nobody was looking my way, but who was I kidding, nobody was ever looking my way. I took a deep breath and quickly whipped the blade across my skin. The first cut wasn't even skin-breaking, becasue I had been so nervous to do it, I hated pain. I did it again, slower, and pressing down more, and felt that beautiful, awful feel that was the tearing of my skin. It felt brilliant. I loved it, and I knew that from that moment on, I'd do it whenever I could, just to feel it.

Well, I just started high school, in September, and I made a lot of new friends, but sort of still felt like I was doing something wrong. I guess I'll always be socially unacceptable, and I can deal with that, as long as I go home and my little blade is waiting for me. I did it a lot at the beginning of the year, always in my bedroom at night, and I guess I got a little careless with it. I mean, I wore sweatshirts all the time, but it was so routine that one day I forgot and pulled my sleeves up. Well, one of my friends, Veronica, noticed the white bandage that I always put around my cuts. It was half hidden by all my bracelets, but I guess Veronica just has an eye for that sort of thing.

She cornered me after Latin class and asked if she could talk to me. She told me what she had seen and what she was afraid that it meant. I couldn't look her in the eye, but told her to butt out and leave me alone. Bless Veronica, she didn't, and she kept talking about it and writing me notes until I told her I would stop. And I did.

But...

Veronica moved away a few weeks later, and took my secret with her. Things were okay for a while, and I thought I was over that amazing thrill, but one day I had a particularly rough time and ended up in my bedroom , pulling out Old Faithful, and making new red lines on my pale arm. I still do it, and I think I always will. Maybe it's just one of those hormonal teen things, but whatever it is, I'm addicted. I love feeling that hurt, that tearing sensation, I love it. It's funny how things change. I mean at first I was doing it because I hated myself and wanted to hurt myself, but now I do it becasue I love it and I can't live without it. Weird, huh?"