Categories > Original > Horror

The Blood Pen (the trigger on the gun)

by Mirazal 9 reviews

If you wanted to know, yes, the title is a Harry Potter reference

Category: Horror - Rating: PG - Genres: Angst,Drama - Published: 2013-01-13 - Updated: 2013-01-13 - 833 words

The Blood Pen (the trigger on the gun)

The girl sat in the back corner of the classroom. There were still 10 minutes of lunch period, and she was in English class very early.

Hood up, head down, headphones in, she waited for people to start walking in. Like she did every day.

The teacher walked in, holding a coffee. "Why, hello, early bird," he greeted his student, completely unsurprised. "How are you today?"

The girl never looked up, never made eye contact. "I'm fine."

She fingered the bandages on her arms, hidden by her sweatshirt.

The teacher sat down at his desk and graded various assignments. The girl looked at her desk. Her peers started coming in from lunch, talking loudly and laughing.

Sighing, she opened her English class notebook, waiting for the teacher to write the daily prompt on the board. Other students settled down, tearing away from conversation and sitting at their desks.

The bell rang, and the teacher stood up.

"I hope you all brought books today, because you will have 20 minutes of silent reading after writing in your notebooks."

Most of the class groaned. The girl smiled.

"Oh, don't be so enthusiastic," said the teacher as he made his way to the whiteboard. "Here's your prompt." He picked up a marker and started writing, speaking aloud as he did so. "Write a little bit... about... 3 things... that you... hate... about... yourself. There. Get started."

He went back to his desk. The students started writing.

Hesitantly, the girl picked up her pen, flipped to an empty page, and began writing.

I hate the way I look. I hate how my stomach is so round and wrinkles up when I sit down. I hate how when I sit down my thighs get humongous. I hate how I don't have a thigh gap. I hate how my collarbones aren't that prominent. I hate how when I wear pants my waist bulges out. I hate how I'm short- all the models are tall. I hate how my nose is too big and my chin is too round. I hate how my hair never looks good, even when I work on it for an hour. I hate how my boobs are so small. I

She looked up. Everyone was already reading. The girl rubbed her bandages and continued writing.

I hate how I'm not smart. All my friends think I'm smart, but this year has been horrible and I just can't understand anything that my teachers talk about. I hate how my grades can never be good enough for my parents. I hate how I can never be good enough. I hate how I'm not good at anything. I hate how I'm not good enough for my friends because they've all left me. I hate how I'm always so lonely at school when everyone else has someone.

She rubbed her eyes, flipped to the next page, and kept going. Her arms felt tingly but she disregarded it.

I hate how messed up my head is. I know that I'm blessed and I have a lot but for some reason I still hate my life... even when it's so good. I hate how I can't bring myself to talk to anyone I don't know or ask someone for help at a grocery store or anything. I hate how I'm always so sad. Why can't I just stop existing? The world doesn't need me, it has 7 billion more people to replace me. There's nothing for me here! A life I hate? Disappointed parents? Friends who leave me? People that I hate talking to? I seriously wish I could just d

She stopped writing.

The ink had run red.

Her wrists stung. Horrified, the girl lifted up her sleeves and saw blood soaking her bandages.

Tearing them off her skin, she looked at her scars.

They were open and bleeding, as if she had just carved them into her skin a moment ago.

As she inspected, she found new wounds going all up her arms, in places she had never cut before.

What's happening?

It took a moment to figure it out.

Letting out a small cry, the girl stood up, ripped out the notebook pages, and marched to her teacher's desk. People looked up from their books.

"I can't do this anymore," she said shakily, placing the wrinkled pages in front of her teacher. "I'm sorry." The teacher stared at her, stunned, and the girl turned away.

She quickly grabbed her things, shoved them into her backpack, and walked out of the room.

She put her hood up, head down, and headphones in.

I'm not exactly sure how to end this, so if you have an idea, please let me know.

The idea was inspired by the tumblr post, and to some extent, my own life.

I don't cut, though. Sometimes I don't like myself, but that's the same for everyone. Don't worry about me, guys.

I love you all.
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