The scream progressively got louder. The scream of pain, of terror, of desperation. It grew and grew as the dull blade of the pocket knife slowly split the skin of her thigh among the many other scars and scabs of previous woes. She became afraid her mother would awaken at  her screams of pleasure and pain. She took the fist of the hand that wasn't slicing her leg and bit down hard on it. It stifled her just enough. She began to carve, she knew it'd be gone in a matter of months, she didn't scar well. She carved and carved. what was once just a mass of lines became recognizable as names, then the names formed a list. After an hour passed she sat back and sighed in relief. The first time she had done cuts this deep huge tears streamed down her face, but now she was accustomed to the pain, actually... It wasn't even pain anymore, it was now as comforting as a hug. Sitting back on her bed she looked at the knife sticking out of her thigh and felt it as her heart pumped blood to her lower leg, each time creating an even larger trickle of blood. Soon her whole leg was crimson.

A year ago today, this was my story. and look how far I've come.