She couldn't take it.

Her breathing was heavy and her eyes were turning red from the tears unshed.

So she hadn't been hit, but she would have preferred it. It would have made the tears worth something. Worth the pain.

But no. Instead she had finally cracked.

All of the pent up rage inside her, the longing, the confusion and the inner pain. She took a knife about the length of her index finger and pulled it across her arm, quickly and painfully.

Nothing to draw blood of course. Just to get that pain that would make the tears worth something.

By the time she was done she had thin white scars on her left arm a few inches apart and the tears finally fell. Not tears of pain though.

Tears of self disgust.

She didn't care enough to cover them up, because no one would care enough to notice. She always wore a sweater or long sleeve shirt anyway.

Not many people get near her, not many people know her. Not many of the people she knows know the real her. But they don't care enough to know. But that isn't really a concern of hers. Her concern is her only fear.

Does anybody care? Do they care for her struggle or her well being? Did they care whether or not she survived this struggle?

No. They don't.

Very few have seen the real her. The one that wallows in her own self despair. All they ever see is her strong and perky facade. But that facade is starting to crumble. All she needs to rebuild it is someone who cares enough to help her.

But, does that someone even exist...?