I thought that I would be fine. But everytime I got judged, failed at something, it ate away at my insides. I smiled, even though I felt myself trembling, just a little bit. And it hurt to do that, to try to smile even when all I wanted to do was to lock myself in the toilet and scream until my voice was hoarse. English lesson was over. I had been listening, been a good girl and paid attention. I tried calming myself down by writing a little poem to reassure myself that nothing was wrong, I was not hurt, I was totally okay. Recess. I had found a small group of friends. But I didn't feel like eating. So I stayed in class, trying to forget everything that happened that day as I held my head down and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. I looked at the clock. About 15 minutes before lessons started. I took hold of the bookmark I had been given the day before and went to the toilet. The first scratch I made was sweet, torturous release. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. But for a moment, I forgot what had happened. It was like making a small prick in the balloon of negativity that had built up in me. Another scratch,  little bit deeper, a little less painful. Then another. Then another. And then a hot tear dropped onto the raw flesh. That was when I realised that my vision had blurred. It felt difficult to swallow,  like there was a lump in my throat. But it didn't matter. I washed my face and my arms and went back to class. Chemistry was the next period. It was great, kept me preoccupied , especially since the time was pretty tight. English Literature made me lose track of time. The hour passed too quickly. I loved the lesson. Then Math came. It isn't that I dislike Math. I love studying Math. The problem was that I was too fast. There was little for me to do as the teacher carried on explaining while the answers were already written on my worksheet. So I thought again. And the balloon filled up. Slowly, slowly, slowly. I took the bookmark in my hand and examined it. The edge I used to dig into my skin in the toilet was rather blunt. There was another tip. It was sharper. This I used. I am lucky that I sit at the back of the class. No one saw. No one heard. But I felt better, felt less bad. Until I realised that the scratches were turning puffy. They reddened quickly. And for some unconceivable reason, I was afraid. I was ashamed. I wanted to hide it. And I was lucky again. No one saw. No one. But the hurt stayed.