So she walked dejectedly home from school, dragging her toes, further destroying the muddy ballerina slippers she used to love. Soaked and dripping wet, her mascara cascaded down her face in dirty, soiled tears. God it hurts. She couldn’t understand why the other kids felt the need to tease her, remind her of what an outcast she was. Why they had to steal her guitar, cut her hair, rip her skirt. They enjoyed watching her cry. Kids are cruel. They probably didn’t even know her name. Can’t you see it hurts? She walked until she reached her cold empty house. Her mom was never home. Never. But she never relied on her mom, she never could. She didn’t even call her “Mom.” She called her by her name, Sheryl. Sheryl didn’t care much about her. Sheryl wasn’t even fazed when she saw her daughter suddenly had shed 10 inches of hair since that morning. She just said “You did a crappy job with them scissors girl.” Thanks mom. It still hurts. She trudged to the bathroom, peeled her soaked clothes from her icy skin and took a shower. She turned the water all the way up, she knew the water would burn her skin, cause her pain. She counted on it. She needed it. The water burned her, numbing her pain away. I told you it hurts! She lathered up the soap and scrubbed hard with her nails, scratching deep welts in her skin. She desperately scrubbed her self quickly and harshly, wherever she could reach. There was soap in her eyes, her mouth, her ears, everywhere she was covered in soap. Her face, her hands, her legs, all covered in deep red welts as she tried to wash away her feelings. Wash away why she was different, wash away what was wrong with her. Wash away her heart. It doesn’t hurt anymore.