Some days I'd wake up with fresh lines going across my wrists, showcasing their mesmerizing crimson color. As beautiful as they looked to me, the question of how I got such marks would always cross my mind. No matter how hard I'd try, I could never remember what I'd done the previous night to obtain these permanent streaks.

Today was one of those days. I woke up with yet another bundle of red lines, fresh on both wrists. They never hurt. Or, I focused too much on the captivating color to ever notice the pain. 

I looked with rounded eyes at my thin yet colorful wrists. How did this happen? How could this have happened? The same questions I asked myself every morning swam around my brain yet again. They weren't negative, just full of curiosity. Scanning around my room, there were no triple x bottles lying around in a mess, meaning I hadn't gotten myself drunk. I had no real motives or reasons as to why I'd do this to myself, so my confusion grew all the more. And it's not like my roommate would deliberately try to injure me like this. But, like I do every morning, I shrugged it off and got myself ready for the rest of the day.

What could I do? I thought as looked at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. There's not much I could do about it. These marks would eventually turn into bland scars, and the only thing I'd see every time I gaze down at them are questions with no answers. 

The more I look into the mirror, the more I tend to fall for myself. My face is just so stunning, so alluring, so perfect. With a face like this, I don't understand how the whole world doesn't fall for me. But maybe that's just me being narcissistic.

When I meet up with my friends, I never bring it up. The marks. How could they possibly know? Besides, asking them about it would only raise more questions regarding my mental well being, which I personally believe have no issues with.

I'm a very happy person. Quiet, but still bright and most times very positive. I even joke around a lot with my friends, sometimes making fun of them in a playful manner or playing tricks on them. And my friends do the same with me, of course but on different levels. I wish I could play the same jokes and tricks on my roommate, but he's never home when I am.

We met at a cafe today, my friend(who goes by the name Bitto) and I, only because it was the simplest place for a rendezvous. Not much time was spent there, leaving right after purchasing two cups of coffee, one for each of us. Where we should go was discussed between us as we ambled down the not very crowded sidewalk. It was mid-morning, so everyone who's in school was at school, and everyone who works was at work, meaning the only other people who'd be on the streets would be housewives and young adults with nothing better to do like us. So the last thing we expected was a busy businessman walking briskly with a phone against his ear, rushing to who knows where bumping into us. A dirty look was shot at me, along with a sound of disappointment emitted between his lips. 

"Watch where you're going, ugly."

It all happened so quickly, all I could muster up for a reaction was a blink and an open mouthed expression. Bitto, I presumed, was equally shocked.

My coffee had spilled. Brown stained my white sweater like dry blood. A hand was felt on my shoulder and I turned in surprise to see my friend with a vulnerable look on his face.

"Are you alright? Ignore what he said, you're not ugly."

Why was he so vulnerable? Why did he look so scared? I didn't know, but I didn't bother question it. I know I'm handsome, and I can always wash the sweater. 

I smiled. "I'm fine."

Signed,
Prince Charming.