She plays with her sleeves. It's a nervous habit that she shouldn't have. They always have to be down so she can pin them to the palm of her hand with her thumb. Always. Shes afraid when she has them rolled up.
She doesn't understand why she is so afraid. People have seen them before. No one has ever done anything. She knows she should show them to the right person, make them fix her. She can't do that though. She doesn't think she can be anything else. What if she fails?
She stares out the window and thumbs her sleeves. She sings softly to no one or thing in particular. In her mind, she hates herself. She despises what she has become. Yet she doesn't know exactly what it is she has become. All she can recognize is the anger she feels and the sadness over everything.
She starts to panic. She can't control the feelings inside her that are rushing around making it hard to breathe. She presses her hand against the window pane as her eyesight gets blurry. Suddenly she stumbles backwards and searches her room frantically. She needs something, anything, that will make her feel human again.
She finds what she needs. It shines brightly catching the light in her room and reflecting it back. She sighs as everything is numbed and she knows she won't remember what she did. But the mark will be there.
She doesn't want them to go away completely. She wants people to know. To see. To learn. They make up who she is. They tell her story scar by scar. One day she will look at them and see them as part of her, beautiful in their own cruel way. Until that day she will see them for what they can do for her. Blissful release. Bittersweet and red.