Freezing. It’s freezing.




































It always is nowadays.






























It may be July but the chill only grows, until I can see it mist on my breath. My breath, frozen on the window like a whisper. Forgotten, just like me.























Automatically, my hand reaches for the sharp edge of the ruler. It starts with one, tiny red cut, until my wrist is a broken road of pain. I stare down at the deep maze on my left arm. Jagged lines join together and split apart in a bloody pattern.




























Who hears a girl who has no voice?


















































They always try and make me talk. Their big, concerned faces thrust in my face, begging me for answers.





































“What’s wrong with you, Hannah?”




























“Why aren't you eating?”






























“Is that another cut on your arm?”

































“Hannah, would you like to talk to me about this?”























No, no I would not. But they never listen. I can hear their voices now; shrill and screaming false care.





I am a failure. Fat. Stupid. Lazy.




























I am the girl who walks the corridors alone, a heavy rucksack hitting my back. Some faces register pity. Some concern. But mostly there are the sneers. I know what every one of them is thinking, anyway. They are all glad not to be me.


























I wish I had that choice. It gets so bad that sometimes I think that if I can just make the point go in a little further, Hannah Fielding won’t exist anymore and I’ll be lost in a blur of pain and confusion.








That’s stupid, of course. But I just can’t stop.