Chapter 1

I have hit rock bottom. I have felt the roughness beneath my fingertips. I have tasted the dirt at the back of my throat. I am at the lowest point and it's making it harder for me to stand back up. But I need to get up. I have heard that rock bottom is the perfect foundation to rebuild your life upon. And I did. I did get up.

Self harm is a subject that shouldn't be ignored. But it is also a subject we shouldn't understand. It is natural for society to automatically think it is like a drug that poisons the body. To torture and kill. In some cases this can be true, however don't you get this feeling that you are going to explode with all of the tension, stress and pressure that has been building up inside of you? The pain is excruciating, yet somehow relaxing for it can relieve all of this in one swift movement.

The way the world seems to go into hyper drive as adrenaline pulsates through your veins. The way your body staggers for breaths it cannot catch. The way every sound is magnified to a countless number.

Not enough pain to kill, but just enough to make you forget about everything for a second. It is quite ironic that the most wrong thing to do in the world can also be the most right thing to do.

But for me, I really shouldn't have done it. I thought it would make me forget about him, but all it has done is made me dwell on his memory even more. 

After I self harmed my step mother claimed I was depressed, mainly due to the fact that I never left the house anymore, I don't eat frequently and I'm suicidal. I'm a messed up person. Let's call it a midlife crisis, even though I'm only sixteen. It was a state of depression I couldn't see myself through.

She signed me up for this weekly support group a.k.a THE WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD! It hardly inspires you to "spread your wings" (as they like to say) and overcome your problem. It is just a bunch of hormonal teenagers sat in a circle of a rundown gymnasium. They say depression is in a state of the human mind. Let me tell you something, this place itself is the definition of depression.

"You brought this on yourself, you know."

"Huh?" I asked totally dumbfounded, due to the reason of living in deep thought.

My step mother, Clarissa, sighed and continued, "I was hoping this would have been a last resort, applying you here, but obviously I can't trust you anymore. I am only doing this because I love you and I don't want you to get hurt."

I scoffed shaking my head, clearly emphasising my annoyance towards her presence. 

"You have hurt me in so many ways already." I notice her shoulders slump as if a giant boulder was laid on her and she couldn't straighten herself up. There was an aura of grey around her, a mist that wouldn't rise. I clearly offended her then with my choice of words. "Just go, please."

Before she left she asked me a question. "Have you got your dress ready for the funeral tomorrow?"

I nodded, not wanting to speak in case I let out an angry storm of sobs.

"OK, I will see you later."

And with that, she was gone.

I pushed through the heavy doors and I knew instantly that the building was most certainly dilapidated, however not beyond repair. Crispy paint was slowly peeling from the aching walls. Small puddles of water welled in corners and seeped from walls, creating a strong and noticeable presence of mold. As you probably can already tell, this isn't the best support group in town. My step mother probably enrolled me in this one because it was free. There were several chairs ordered in a circle at the centre of the room with several depressed teenagers occupying them.

I immediately regretted making my presence noticeable. I could literally taste the raging hormones, the salty tears and the sticky snot. I wearily took a seat next to two girls - one who wouldn't stop crying and one who looked bored and didn't want to be here.

The routine was simple - we went around everyone in the circle and said our name, age and problem. But of course we were delighted with Martin's story of how he overcame his problem, which encouraged him to start this support group in hope that we, too, can overcome our problems. 

Basically, he was an alcoholic due to stress at work and it got to a point where his life was at risk. Then he told us he met a beautiful woman, named Sophie, at one of his counselling sessions who helped him to become a better man. Presumably, they fell in love and got married. And he now claims SHE is the reason he no longer drank. Real reason is, the one he doesn't want to admit, he quit his job. So, he now believes that if we confront our problem, like he did, we will find our reason and we can finally spread our wings and fly into the world, head held strong. 

There were about six of us sat in a circle. Most of them where about drug abuse, smoking, self harm. When it was my turn, I said, "My name is Elizabeth Fallen. I'm sixteen. I'm depressed."

"Would you like to tell us a bit more about your problem?" Martin asked me.

I was at a struggle for words. This was my outcome, "I'm sad," 

"Why are you sad? No one should be sad when we have so much to live for!" Martin explained throwing his hands up wildly in the air.

"Oh wait, I'm sorry. I totally forgot I had to ask for your permission if I can be sad or not." I spoke sarcastically.

"You know I didn't mean that. Uh, Michael. Could you please share your problem in more detail to the rest of the class? This may help Elizabeth become a bit more confident and open." He figured.

It’s really interesting that everyone in this world has their own individual voice, and different aspects about their voice. When I was in primary I used to remember each of their voices and its quite incredible how we learn them so quickly and easily, despite how many there are.

This voice was one I remembered so much, it seemed like I only talked to them yesterday. "Sure, I'm Michael-"

"We heard the first time." I interrupted, looking up to see his face. Chestnut, layered hair clumsily hangs over a weak, tired face. Darting green eyes, set comfortably within their sockets, watch cautiously over mine. Something about his face makes me feel like I have met him before, like I have spoke to him before like friends do. However, nothing comes to mind.

“So, I currently self harm so I can release all of my anger. You see, at the moment I am being cyber bullied and at first I thought it was going to be one of those things where it will pass over in a couple of weeks, maybe. But it hasn't. They know things about me, my past, and they are threatening me with it. They are saying I should die and that I'm a waste of space, and the worst part is I actually believe them. What use am I to anyone?"

The pitch of his voice heightened at some points when he spoke. He reminds me of this boy I knew a while ago.

"You shouldn't believe them," I ordered.

Martin's head shot up in surprise at my sudden choice of words. I'm not really the type of girl to give sympathy. I use to be though. A lot of things have changed.

"See, this is good. We are helping each other overcome these boundaries." Martin smiled.

"And you know what? We shouldn't believe you," I continued.

"Excuse me?" Michael asked, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Don't think you could get away that easily without me recognising you. It's quite sad to say that this is where we are now. This is the knock on effect it has caused. I'm actually quite embarrassed. But really, I should be more embarrassed for you. You see everyone," I directed my attention to the rest of the teenagers here who were eagerly watching our conversation, "what Michael has been saying here about being bullied, is all crap, and don't you deny,” I pointed my finger at him. “I actually can’t believe you used bullying as your story when I’m sat right here. You don’t know what it feels like to be on the end of the finger. Some people's lives are actually rubbish y'know, and here you are sitting on your attention-seeking a*s claiming you purposely hurt yourself because you are cyber bullied, which isn't even true. You're a coward, you know that!"

I could see his lips quivering with fear and his eyes becoming darker and more dangerous. 

"You don't know the half of it," he hissed, gritting his teeth angrily.

"What are you talking about?" I questioned until I remembered something he told me. "Wait; is this about your mum?"

The shocked expression on his face, the pale complexion he now had told me I was right.

"Shut up!" He fiercely demanded.

"Elizabeth, think about what you are causing right now." Martin intervened. 

I ignored his warning. I could feel everyone's eyes on mine. Fear spoke some of them. As much as I wanted to stop talking, I couldn't. I don't want to get anything out of this; I just want to hurt him. I will never forgive him for when he pulled me back. His intentions were all but good; the outcome was worst then bad.

"Yes, it is all coming back now. You have always been an attention seeker, but you don't want it from us, but from your mother. 8th July 2006 she walked out on you. She couldn’t cope anymore. Please do correct me if I'm wrong."

"Shut up before you make me do something I really don't want to do!" He threatened, clenching his fists tightly until they became white.

"Michael, please leave." Martin instructed with a serious tone.

With saying that, he released a deep breath and stomped angrily through the back doors.

"Wait!" I shouted after him, the scraping sound of my chair echoing throughout the room. "I'm not done with you yet."

Barely hearing Martin's voice telling me to stop, I opened the back door to see sharp glass everywhere. The brick walls were covered in sloppy graffiti and there was a disturbing smell of rubbish and rotten sewage water lingering in the thick atmosphere.

Michael had his elbows resting against a bottle bank and he was trying to control his staggered breathing. I recognised his pattern - five in, five out. Repeat. 

The moment his eyes caught glance of mine he let out an exaggerated sigh. "What are you trying to do Elizabeth? Are you trying to achieve something?"

"You know, I thought more of you. Up until now. You are intentionally hurting yourself just to get attention from your mother. Like she gives a damn thought about you. You are just a stupid little boy who has his head too far up his own a*s to notice what he really is. You're just like your father." 

Then in the next moment, he stormed up to me like a raging bull. His stare was like daggers and his breathing was uncontrollable. His hand shook ferociously and he slapped me right across the cheek. It sent a million tiny ripples of electricity soaring throughout my now burning and reddened cheek.

The force of the hit made me stumble backwards a few paces until I hit the wall. I began to compose myself and push myself off of the wall, but he grabbed my T-shirt roughly and shoved me back harder and more painfully. I hissed through my teeth in pain and I couldn't move because his body was leaning on mine and his grip was too tight to move an inch.

"Okay, I'm going to pretend like that hurt," I began, the numbness wearing off, "but whilst I'm at it, I want to take you on a trip down memory lane. Do you remember the day you told me you was in a car that only knew the definition of speed? Well let me tell you something, along with speed comes consequences. If you go too fast and get ahead of yourself you will crash, undeniably, and everything and everyone in it will be destroyed. Eliminated! And even if that did happen, your mother will still not care."

He defeatadly let go of my clothing. His eyes became misty and he could barely choke out a word. "Why do you always look down on people? Why are you always cruel?" He asked.

"I never used to be,"