The blood appears, a small line, and begins to bead up. It is bright red, and has an oddly pleasant appearance against my pale skin. I feel a sudden impulse to cut again, and I do, even though I know I shouldn't. It just happens too quickly. I slash my leg horizontally, five times in a row. The fifth of these is much deeper than the others and starts to spurt. The blood streams down my thigh. I drop the knife, sit down, and press on the spurting cut as hard as I can. I slow the flow... it still continues. I quickly grab a piece of paper, and placing it over the wound, I pull on my jeans. I rush to the bathroom, and ask myself: Why the hell did I do this? So stupid! What if someone finds out? Once in the bathroom, I peel off my pants horrified. I've suddenly realized that there's a possibility I got blood on my clothes. I check, and sure enough, there's a stain. "S***, s***, s***, s***, s***!!" I'm frantic. Keeping one hand on my oozing cut, I wash my jeans in the sink as best I can. I shouldn't have done this. Now I'll have to hide my cuts until they heal, which could take months or more. What if they leave scars? So freaking stupid! I felt strong at first, in a twisted way, because of what I was doing. Now I feel weak and pathetic. I know why cutting's addictive. Thankfully, I'm not yet too addicted. But, I tell myself, I will be better... stronger. And I will never do this again.

The next day at school I walk through the halls looking at my peers. Many of their names I don't know. But the thoughts hover in my mind: How many of you silently suffer? How many of you are dealing with similar issues to myself? How many of you are dealing with things I can't even imagine? How many of you have cut?

As I sit in the cafeteria, I know that none of my friends would ever guess that I have.