Chapter One

(A/N: I want to apologize in advance for any stupid typos since I AM typing right on blogger from my notebook. Its just a rough, I'll probably change things as I go, who knows.Enjoy~)


She was tired of being unforgiven and unthought of. It was like someone was dangling happiness before her, keeping it just out of reach.

She needed someone to be here with her, not someone who tries to tell her what to be and what to do. It's her will, it will be her choice. She doesn't need anyone else anyway.

She wanted the world, shouldn't it be hers? She deserved it with all this crap it put her through, all her failures, but when she thought like that it put her to shame.

So she retreats to her razor, all the time, every day of the year. She remembers all of her hurts. She wants to cursh the fools that dare defy her.

She thought that once love could never die. She knows so much better now.

And its like all her prayers go unheard. She's full of self love, and she has fallen so far from God. As far as she is concerned, He isn't real.

This is a cutters story of redemption.

Rachelle squirmed in her seat. It was almost the end of the day, and she had a short walk home in this heat to be alone for twenty minutes before her parents came home. Twenty minutes with her razor.

It was probably her favorite twenty minutes of the day, whether it be in the bathroom on a day there would be a lot of blood, or over her garbage can, where the blood woulld dry until she had a chance to scrape it out.

She smiled wryly and she fingered the strap of her back pack.

"Rachelle," the angry science teacher called her name, "I don't know why you think a subject such as suicide is funny."

"How'd we get on this topic anyway?" shouted a porky kid toward the back of the classroom.

Rachelle wanted to leave the room, to strangle the teacher, and throw her life away. How could happy people even think of suicide? The thought mocks her and she turns it over in her head slowly.

Rachelle kept her cool and kept quiet. She didn't need another scene. She just looked down and wiped the awkward smile off her face. She brushed her golden brown hair back asthe teacher once again asked her what was wrong with her.

She fixed her green eyes on the ground, blocking the teacher out once again. Rachelle gazed at the clock every now and then, dying to get out of this place.

A way to describe this twiggy girl would be anorexic. When people get depressed, some eat too much. A comfort to them. Others find comfort in starving themselves, others such as Rachelle. Down to a size zero, and her legs so thin they look like toothpicks.

The bell rang and the adolescent was about to run out of the door when the grumpy teacher called her name.

"Rachelle..." Mr. Frank said, concerned.

She stood, frozen where she was. Her long sleeve had risen, showing three thick cutso n the soft pale underside of her once smoothe skin, now jagged with scars and fresh cuts. Each with its own story, its own heart ache, its own hurt. Blood smeared her arm, blood she hadn't the time to wipe off.

Rachelle quickly yanked the shirt sleeve down and even more quickly got her things and ran out of the door. She ran into the hear, teares streaming down her face. She ran all the way home and there was a message on the phone. It was from Mr. Frank, and she quickly erased it. She ran upstairs and wiped the tears off her face.

As she took her razor with her in the bathroom, which is on the second floor, along with her bedroom, she remembered how she had first planned her great escape.

In the summer, about half way through 3 years ago, she started wearing long sleeve shirts. Her parents, as over protective as they were, started making her show them her arms, as Rachelle expected. They weren't as stupid as she thought.

So after they trusted her enough to stop making her lift her sleeves, she began to cut herself. Repeativly. And now it is a part of her, she can't kick the habit.

When she first started, she felt bad, so she started to try to write poetry instead. The teen realized that she could never do anything artsy in her life, so she gave up poetry. She almost gave up drawing too, until she realized it was the only thing that kept her awake in class.

So when she couldn't cut herself, she drew other people enjoying her torture, her truther. Her escape.

And she still hasn't shown her best friend, Stacy. Best friend, however, doesn't quite fit. Its more like stacy is Rachelle's only friend. Stacy is the kind of girl that has rude comments for everyone out there. She is also the type of girl thatl oves only herself, and the type that only wants to talk about her and her problems. It was like sin if you interupted her in one of her tangits. Rachelle learned better after the mere first time, when she practically had to sell her soul and beg for forgiveness to keep her only friend.

As you can see, Rachelle is alone. She so despratley wants something different, but at the same time she doesn't. Rachelle has learned that if she wants to be happy, she has to tear down her protective walls of crimson blood. She would have to take the veil off her eyes.

She'd ave to stop cutting.

And cutting, her great escape, was something she was not planning to give up. It was her, it belonged. It was a part of her, she wanted it, she needed it.

Just as she was about to cut herself, she heard her mom down stairs. She heard someone else too. A man's voice.

And it wasn't her father.

Ever so quietly, Rachelle spralled herself on the floor, her ear pressed up against it. She knew it was a bad thing to do, just like her addiction. She also could not care less, just like her addiction.

She strainded her ears as hard as she could, and she still could not hear much.

Maybe, Rachelle thought, its just something that has to do with work. Maybe it's nothing to worry about.

She stepped out of the bathroom, sleeves rolled up. Quickly she pushed them down as her mother came up the stairs.

"Oh..." she said, "You're home early."

Rachelle glued her eyes to the ground and walked to her room, her razor in hand. She flopped down on her bed, thinking about how long she had owned it.

Being the first razor she had used for three and a half year,s the freshmen realized it was dull and ran her fingers over it, harmlessly. She realized how much extra force she had used, and how the cuts were not as deep each time around.

She wanted her cuts to be deep and she wanted them to take months to heal. Tachelle realized that she would have to find another razor.

And Rachelleset her mind on doing that. And the world would feel her pain and soak her blood untikl one day, accidental or purposfull, she was buried in the earth. And then she'd become a part of it. It will seep into her, and the Earth will become her legacy, and the earth's legacy will grow larger, and her legacy will become the Earths. And the Earth's legacy will swell with her's added to what it already owns.

(A/N: There you go, I hope you like it. Comments/crits please!!)