I've always wanted to write something about Paige, and how her parent's divorce affected her. I've also wanted to write something other than my Christian and Tara fics (Not that I'm done writing them..)

This story is less than 1,000 words. I usually try to write longer stories, however, I don't want to clutter this with filler simply to get to a word count goal. I've said all I need to say in this.

It would not be too surprising if she, a cutter, smoked. One and the other, both an outlet. Cutting, smoking. The latter even better, in theory, with the pleasure brought by a breath of smoke. But pleasure was never the goal of her undesirable actions. Pleasure hides nothing. It sharpens. Pain, however, dulls the roaring in her ears. The burning protest her abused nerves screeched was loader than any thought or memory. Only the pain of mutilating the being which causes others ample more will solve anything, everything.

How cliche. A teenager. Daughter of divorced parents. A cutter. Failing. ADHD. Statistics after statistic racked up. One in a million, no, one of a million. How silly when she took a peace of broken plastic back in sixth grade, she thought she was doing it once, to show her peers her pain. Oh, how terrified she now is, just three years later, of said situation. Do they notice? Maybe. There was no maybe as to did they care.
Her mother was easily fooled. Simply exema. Scratching. And how often did she see the women, so wrapped up in Abigail's life? Her sister was no matter- how often did they speak? In the eye of an emotional hurricane, her apparatus sliced through the winds and silenced them, the young girl questioned if she would rather spend time with her sister, or her apparatus.
The answers depends on where she is. Often does she think up a new answer to what could be nothing simpler than one or the other. Each depends on where she is on the endless path of hurricanes. The peace between two. No damage if there is no storm- the warm wind stays in their rightful place, and she has time to work, to be normal. Her sister.
The sickening calm before the next storm. She knows it's coming, she knows the universe is trying to apologize, to prepare, give her a chance to board the windows, close up, brace herself for what us to come. Here her answer is difficult to admit, shameful, and almost sends her closer to glass she knows is soon to shatter, if only to block out her shame.
The winds pick up. Hot air rises, and his phrases of choice echo through her small sanctuary, evacuated by all who who simply are smarter, stronger.
It's all a game.
Someday you'll understand.
You can't let her control you.
Cold air, not to be outdone, fights vigilantly.
I'm doing this for you.
Just come live with me.
How can you be so selfish?
How could she be so selfish? Abigail was the important one. She was.. Paige. Not a gymnast, journalist, ribbon dancer, no, just Paige. Good ol' Paige the Ripper. How could she pick her sister, when she can feel the tension? She who abandoned her. She could make it better but won't. A visit, one simple visit for her sister! So hard? Yes. Who dare near the young girl, locked in her internal hut.
Many notice, none care. She sits. Dead in the middle of a tiny wooden hut, windows and door boarded, she sits with her apparatus in hand, ready for the battle cry. She bets with herself who it will be. Mums or Fa?
What was a pinch feeling of disrespect grew to a quiet thought. Which grows louder, as it always does, and thus the winds begin. How does she block out the winds? Slowly, methodically, she closes her eyes and braces herself, the sharp tip of her apparatus out, and makes a quick slash at her left inner arm. One could argue anyone who works solely there is seeking attention. One would be met with, that where it hurts the most.
A few seconds of waiting. Blissful waiting for pain. It's almost like the drug from Dredd; it all slows down. She can hear the wind, but knows on a few seconds, she will hear nothing. All she will feel is the biting pain in her arm.

I myself have struggled with self harm for a long time; I wrote this in the middle of a 'hurricane' That's something I love about writing. It's a place to share your own experiences, to express yourself, even if you do it hiding behind fictional characters.

Never intended to post this, and I'll probably take this down later. But, for now, spur of the moment thing

And lastly, my stories are mine. Stealing a paragraph of mine and changing two words does not make it your own.