Molly: Sometimes…sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here. On this world, I mean. I feel…transparent. Everyone I meet sees me, everyone I know talks to me, but it’s sorta empty. Like they’re talking to themselves and they can’t see me at all. (pauses) I have to keep reminding myself that I must exist, that I can’t just be some sort of weird echo on earth. I have to slice my arms with a razor, to feel pain, to know that I have a conscious. Some people call them battle scars. (shakes head) These are reality checks; to check that reality exists. (pauses)

My parents took me to a psychologist once, just to see if he could figure out how to fix me, as if I was a broken watch that just needed to be rewound. It killed me inside, thinking that they knew I was past broken. Anyways, the psychologist told me to, instead of hurting myself, to make a list of everything that must be true. Like my name is Molly Louise Oswald, I am sixteen, I am breathing, my parents are David Oswald and Eleanor Oswald, you know, stuff like that. I do it, not because it helps, but because it appeases everyone. I sit in my room in the dark late at night, just thinking. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know if I could do anything. I don’t know if I am really breathing, if my heart is really pumping, or if I am just a figment of someone’s imagination. And if I am, I just want to stop. To stop this horrid nightmare of thinking and dreaming and wanting to die. I want to live like a real person. I want to be a real person.