She didn't want to die. That's what they all need to understand. She was
fine. She was, in her own mind, perfect. Everyone makes mistakes, right? So how come when she makes one simple mistake, they focus on her. Is is because she scares them? No, they're scared for her.

Taylor groaned and pounded her bruised fists against the wall. 'They think they're helping. They think they're doing it because they love me, but they're wrong. They do it because they hate me,' she thought.

Something she did a lot lately. Only becaue if she said something aloud, she'd be confronted and then screened for the next week and incolved in extensice therapy. Therapy everyday. Oh. My. God. She didn't want to die.

If she wanted to die, she would put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. And believe me, she has it all planned out. Kind of like an escape route to take her out of the fire. Too bad she'll never use it. She doesn't want to die. In fact, she wants to live. She wants to be free, but she can't.

That's the problem. If they gave her, her own space she would be better. But they keep her locked up. They think they're helping, but they're just contaminating her more and more. So instead of healing, she hurts.

They lock her up and she forces down more pills. They lock her up and she starts counting calories and doesn't eat. They lock her up and the blades appear. Vicious. Vicious. Vicious!

Interupting her thoughts, her mother calls her from the bottom of the staircase. "Taylor, hunny! Come on, it's time to go!"

Taylor coated her eyes once more with eyeliner and trudged down the stairs. Her mother stood there waiting and looked her o ver. This wasn't her Taylor....

Her once blonde hair, dyed black. Her long layers, cut choppy short and spiked up in a fo-hawk. She had piercings in her eyebrow, ears, and lip. Her bright blue eyes were dull and drowning in a pool of black eyeliner and mascara. Instead of her old clothes, she wore tight, black clothes.

She didn't want to fight, but it just slipped out, "Taylor," in a sigh.

"Emma, " she snapped back, her face emotionless.

Emma sighed again, "Taylor hunny, you know I love you."

"You know I don't."

Emma rubbed her temples thoughtfully. "Come one. Therapy starts at four."

Taylor walked past Emma silently, letting Emma see her arms. Her old arms were muscular and tan but these were pale and scarred.

Emma shivered. The scars scared her. She knew how they cam to be and it scared her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. They did this everytime she saw those scars or even worse, the fresh cuts. She quickly blinked back the tears and followed Taylor out to the car.

Emma got in the driver's seat, started the car, then realized Tayllor was still standing outside. She frowned and rolled down the window. "Is there something wrong sweetie?"

"Yes." Taylor growled and thought, 'obviously there was something wrong. You think I'm crazy and want to die but I don't. I don't want to die.'

Emma sighed and patted the passenger's seat. "Please get in."

Taylor opened the back door and climbed in the back. "Why are you sitting back there?" Emma frowned again.

"To keep my distance."

She didn't want another argument so she shook her head and drove to the clinic in silence. Taylor groaned as they pulled into the parking lot. The clinic always made her uncomfortable. It stood still, looking almost abandoned in a small, cracked parking lot. There were very few windows and too many bricks. It was suffocating.

When they walked in, the lady at the desk smiled. She had gray hair pulled back in a clip and plenty of wrinkles. The glasses on her nose hung from a chain and her face had a kindness to it.

Emma walked up to her while Taylor trailed behind. "We have an appointment for Taylor Church."

"Ahh, yes. You can go ahead in. Dr. Marral is waiting."

"Thank you." She turned around to face Taylor. "I'm going to get groceries. I'll be back to get you in an hour. Now go, Dr. Marral is waiting."

Taylor rolled her eyes and marched through the doors, down the hall and into Dr. Marral's stuffy office.

Dr. Marral looked up from her paper work and smiled. "Hello Taylor. How are you feeling today?"

Her smile made Taylor choke, "Fine."

Dr. Marral didn't let Taylor's harsh voice get to her. She stayed smiling and cheerful. "That's good. So, anything new?"

"Nope." Taylor greeted Dr. Marral with a frown and slumped into the black couch, arms crossed over her chest.

"How's school?" Dr. Marral tried making conversation while she dug through the stack of papers on her desk.

"Great," Taylor's sarcastic tone made Dr. Marral wince.

She found what she was looking for, strapped it to a clipboard and sat on the couch across from Taylor. "That's good."

Taylor responded by shifting her eyes to the windows. It was raining. She watched the sky's teardrops bounce on the window. Even though it was only four in the afternoon, the sky was sad, gray, and dark like night.

Dr. Marral sighed, "Ready to get started?"

"Whatever," Taylor mumbled.

"Have you had any bad thoughts lately?"

"I don't know."

"Well have you been searching through your mind for a way out?"

She was pushing it. Taylor put on her liar face. "I don't know what you mean."

"Are you thinking about suicide?"

Too far! Anger raged through Taylor. "I don't want to die! I never did want to die. I don't think of suicide. Why won't you people listen to me?" She was standing up now.

Dr. Marral kept calm. "Then why do you do those things?" She was writing furiously.

"I don't do anything."

"You pop pills, don't eat, and cut yourself. If you ask me, that's under the category of doing something."

"Well, I didn't ask you. Besides, it's a warning."

"What do you mean?"

"If everyone didn't keep me locked up, I would stop. It's not my fault, it's yours." She pouted and sat back down.

"So we frustrate you?"

"Yes," she said gruffly.

"But why do you like keeping so much distance?"

Taylor opened her mouth, not sure what to say but luckily for her, Dr. Marral's phone rang. "This is good. Stay in the feeling. Please exuse me." She said looking at the caller ID then shuffling out, slamming the door behind her.

Finally peace at last, Taylor thought. She was done. Why did Dr. Marral pick today. She went too far. Taylor doesn't want to doe. Why was that so hard to believe?

Taylor looked at her arm and ran a finger along the rigid scars. Were they right? Was there something wrong with her? She closed her eyes and pushed that thought out of her head. She dug into her pocket and made a fist over the small blade she removed from her razor. No, she thought, not here. Not now. A little voice in the back of Taylor's head said not ever, but she ignored it.

A small sigh escaped her mouth as she rocked herself back and forth, attempting to sleep. No use. She couldn't sleep while she was craving. She couldn't do anything. All she could concentrate on was the blade in her hand and the urge to force it deep into her bloody flesh. She fought it off. Not here. Not now. But soon.

The clock hands stroked 4:30. Only thirty more minutes and Taylor could tell Dr. Marral was deep in conversation. Thinking of Dr. Marral, she asked herself, why do I cut? Where does the urge come from?

But that wasn't the right question. Why did she like it so much? Why couldn't she stop? Frustration blurred her eyes and she blinked back the tears. She clenched her fist harder around the blade until she knew for sure she punctured her palm deep into the skin. It hurt. Hurt like hell. But it helped. Nobody understands how, but it helps.

She thinks it has somehting to do with you thinking everything is your fault or something and you cut to punish yourself. You cause yourself pain, to make up for the pain you caused someone else. And it helps. Taylor was smart. She saw it as common sense.

Right after you make the wound, you must hide it and it helps to regain composure. That's what she needed, a little composure. Just to set her friends straight.

Taylor had the greatest friends anyone could wish for. Anna Honders, Kara Sherwood, and Eliza Whittle. When Taylor hit her bump in the road, her friends never gave up on her. Even when she bailed on them for other kids - druggies and scumbags, her real friends never stopped calling. Sometimes they still hang out. It's a way for Taylor to remember what used to be. Maybe, taylor would even call Anna or Eliza later. Maybe Kara, or Kara's older sister Carla, who understands Taylor for she was also in a clinic once. Doubtful, but.... To shorten the story, when everyone else turned on her, they were there. Taylor, even though she doesn't admit it, loves her friends to death.

Dr. Marral interrupted her thoughts by coming back in. "Are you awake?"

Taylor realized she still had her eyes closed. "Yes."

"So, sorry about that."

"Yep," Taylor pouted.

"Well, I see you're in a better mood." She joked while she looked over her clip board but it wasn't funny.

"So it's already 4:45..." Dr. Marral insisted.

"Good."

Dr. Marral sighed. "Is there anyone picking you up?"

"Emma."

"Oh, so do you want to share anymore?"

"Nope," Taylor's voice was cold.

Dr. Marral bowed her head. She'd been working on Taylor for eight months straight and there were no signs of progress. But she wouldn't give up. She had to try. "Since you don't have any ideas, I will pick up from where I started out, I mean left off and we can work from there." Her voice was exhausted but she had a smile plastered to her lips.

"Whatever." Taylor averted her eyes and watched the windows lick up the rain.

"So from what you told me, no suicide, you don't want to be locked up, and we frustrate you."

Taylor growled, "Yeah." Her mind counted the minutes. 4:48.

"What are you thinking right now?"

Taylor fumbled on the question. "Honestly?"

"Yes, don't worry, you won't hurt my feelings."

She smirked. "I'm not worried. I was thinking about the time. Counting seconds until your timer rings." 4:52.

"Well, at least you were being honest." Dr. Marral forced a smile.

Taylor didn't respond. Together, their silence suffocated the room. 4:54. Six more minutes, Taylor thought. Six more stuffy minutes of prison. Six more minutes of Hell.

Dr.Marral fiddled with her fingers, trying, searching for something to say. "I'm glad you were a little open today. It means a lot to me, you know? Watching progress take place."

"Sure, whatever."

How could she do that? How could one miserable girl crush thirty years of dreams? How could Taylor ruin Dr. Marral? In less than an hour, Dr. Marral's spirits crashed majorly. First she gets a phone call that one of her favorite and hardest cased patients, killed herself last night, then this brat acts like the air is poisoned when all she wants to do is help.

4:59! Taylor screamed in her head - one more minute! One more minute! Her hand closed harder around the blade. She counted the seconds in silence. 60. 59. 58. 57. 56. 55. 54. 53. 52. 51. 50. 49. 48. 47. 46. 45. 44. 43. 42. 41. 40. 39. 38. 37. 36. 35. 34. 33. 32. 31. 30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25. 24. 23. 22. 21. 20. 19. 18. 17. 16. 15. 14. 13. 12. 11. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Ding-Ding-Ding.

The bell on Dr. Marral's desk rang, concluding the appointment. Dr. marral stood up, smiled, and held out her hand for Taylor to shake. "See you on Monday."

"Taylor, avoiding her hand, faked a quick smile and left leaving Dr. Marral alone.

She walked out of the office quickly and stood near the parking lot in the pouring rain. A tear ran down her face. This was her favorite time to cry, when it was raining, so no one knew she was crying. but she wasn't crying, it was one lonely tear, that blended in with the rain falling on her fragile face.

She waited out a few silent moments only to hear the pitter-patter of rain drops in the empty parking lot. She looked around, she had the creeps and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She kind of enjoyed the feeling and to her dismay, Emma pulled into the parking lot.

When Emma saw Taylor, stading in the pouring rain, an apolegetic look engulfed her face, As usual, Taylor ignored it. She climbed into the backseat and hung her head low, hiding her face in the shadows. That didn;t stop Emma. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. How was it?"

"Just amazing." She groaned.

"I don't understand the attitude, but I don't like it!" Emma raised her voice unexpectedly.

"Because of you." Taylor mumbled quietly, almost a whisper.

"I brought you into this world! I don't understand you. You should appriciate me. You should respect me." Emma shouted.

"Well I don't. Deal with it."

"I think I need to get you examined for bipolar disease or get you some crazy pills." She sounded serious.

"I don't need it."

"Oh really, and why's that?"

"Because I'm not sick."

The rain pounded down onto the windshield and the wipers slashed it away ferociously. "Okay. You know, I want to know something. Why are you the way you are if you're not sick?"

"How am I, Emma?"

"In one word, I think suicidal."

"Bite me!" Taylor grumbled.

"Shut up. Shut the hell up. You don't talk to your mother right and I'm sick of it. Treat me with respect."

"Bite me." Taylor repeated.

"Not another word, miss, or I'll crash the car ad kill us both.

"Maybe I'll report you for saying that." Taylor taunted.

Emma swerved the car to prove her point and Taylor shut up. Emma breathed loudly and continued the argument. "What's your problem in life anyway? What did we ever do to you?"

Taylor didn't answer. Her eyes flooded in a pool of blurry tears. One by one they made their way down her face leaving black eyeliner streaks. She clutched the blade in her hand. Only a few more minutes.

No! No! No! Her conscience screamed at her. Yes! Yes! Yes!Her heart screamed. And don't people always say follow your heart.

Adrenaline rushed through her. She felt her pulse. It was fast and urging her to slow it down. To turn the green veins, red from oxygen overdose. To make one lonely incision. Then give it a friend, then a family.

She breathed deeply and held it in to contain her wariness. 'Why can't I stop?' She asked herself. Maybe she was addicted. Maybe she was scared. But to tell you the truth - she really didn't know and that was the part that scared her.

She batted her eyelashes and cleared the remaining tears. They were close to home and Taylor's mind went to work, preparing. Hide the cut. Regain composure. Almost time. Cut, cut, cut. No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes.

Emma pulled the car into their driveway and Taylor rushed out, slamming the doors. Once inside, she raced to her room adn locked the door behind her.

Her heart raced. Her adrenaline pumped. She loved this. The feeling of giving herself to the blade. She longed for it. Wanted it. Needed it.

The urge just to give in and tear open every vein, every artery, pulled at her mind but she ignored it. She held the thin, smooth razor above her arm and lowered it so it hovered only an inch from her blushing flesh. Her conscience screamed at her, no, no, no! But she went with her gut, yes, yes, yes!

The bladde sliced her skin, sending bubbles of blood upwards. Her heart soared. She grew wings and flew higher than she could ever imagine. No, this, this feeling was different, it was satisfying.

In her mind, she was screaming at each slice. This one's for dad! This one's for mom! This one's for life! This one's for me! Her heart pumped hard and fast. She breathed heavily like she had just punched someone in the face. That's how she felt too, accomplished.

She put the blade in her underwear drawer with the other tools and pulled out a small solution bottle. It was green on the outside with a fake label that said mouthwash but really it was alcohol, pure alcohol. She wasn't a drinker. She didn't like drinking even though at her heardest times, she'd go to a hardcore party and guzzle vodka and whiskey.

She filled the cap with clear liquid, squeezed her eyes shut and poured it over the cuts. Sharp pain ripped through her body, choked her and sent her mind spinning.

She wasn't breathing and was becoming lightheaded. Deep breath, she told herself. There you go now, another and another. She opeed her eyes and looked at her wrist as puss and bubbles spewed out of the cuts.

Then she spaced out and lost track of time. Everything was kind of blurry, half there and half not. When she finally came back to reality, the bloody cuts had dried. She blinked emotionlessly. She had probably lost ten, fifteen minutes.

Once again, evil thoughts drifted through her mind. Am I normal or not? Are they right? Do I need help? Is there something wrong with me? She wanted to smash her head against the wall until her skull was crushed into dust and her bloody, empty brain was slaughtered onto the walls. But she didn't.

She hid her tools back in their home and thanked them silently, tucking them into bed for the night. The burning, stinging sensation was gone. But it didn't bother her so much anymore. It was worth it. If she didn't clean them, they'd get infected, then she'd be taken to the doctor, then rehab. Rehab was bad. She'd heard stories, no way would she be going there. So her only choice was ting like hell or don't cut and she couldn't possibly not cut.

It was all a cyclce, a routine that somehow made it through each day. She had it all planned out. But maybe, just possibly, she didn't want to be a reject for her entire life. She deserved better.

But even though she deserved better, she settled for less. A major problem of hers was not paying attention. She steered clear of life itself because she was afraid of it. She thought maybe if she could zip off her skin and step out, she would see the real her. Or maybe if she would admit she was wrong, things would change. But she won't admit it because she honestly believes she's right. The purpose of her life was nothing.

She was surrounded by pain and emotions. She found herself in agnizing situations where she was in battles with herslef. The situation was t o cut herself, shed the evil skin, layer after sticky layer until she was tiny, almost nothing, and then she'd won the war. It got addicting later on and it wasn't about the battles anymore, it was about being strong. And to her, empty and choppy skin were strong. Everyone has scars, she just chooses to wear hers on the outside.

She looked at her clock. It was time for dinner. She wondered why her mother hadn't called her down yet. Maybe she finally got her point through. Maybe after all the yelling and therapy, they'd finally figured it out. Maybe they finally realized that she was perfect. She was fine and even though it wasn't up to their standards, it was okay. Maybe they realized that no matter what they did, she would never change.

Hopefully they would just let her go. Let her live her own life and when she's ready, don't stop her from sinking. But probably not. She knew deep down that her mom would never stop trying. She wanted her old, innocent little girl back. She couldn't accept the truth. Well it was too bad for her. Taylor was gone. Her soul died a long time ago. Everyday it gets harder to breathe and her heart beats slower and slower.

Taylor never really understood the meaning of life anyway. She hated it. You are living to die. You are living one moment and than die the next. To her, life was like a rollar coaster. You get on and it's amazing for the first few seconds and then everything turns upside down. Then it comes to a slamming stop and you have to get off. Life: You're born, then you die. Brilliant.

But the problem was that she was scared. She didn't want to die. Those people who think she does, are wrong. She doesn't want to die, she wants to live, she wants to thrive. And they are the reason those evil thoughts were in her head. "Do I need help? Am I okay? Am I wrong?

No, no, no. She doesn't need help. People think she does but they are too complicated. It's like a baby. When you tell them no, they might stop but as soon as you turn around, they do it again. When they stop, it's because they want to, not because they're told to. Same with Taylor. She could stop if she wanted to, but she doesn't want to. And when people tell her to atop, it makes her want to do it even more.

It really is simple, it's just that the people in her life aren't simple. They get it wrong.