WARNING: this story is going to deal with a lot of sensitive issues. If this is not in your interests, I kindly ask you to read another story as this one is not for you. I will list trigger warnings before chapters to let the readers know. Again, this is a dark story that involves a plethora of sensitive topics, please take heed. Stephanie Meyers own the Twilight Universe and all its characters.

TRIGGER WARNING- SELF HARM

scrape (skrāp) v. scraped, scrap·ing, scrapes . 1. To remove (an outer layer, for example) from a surface by forceful strokes of an edged or rough instrument

BELLA

When I was younger I was fond of scraped knees, mine in particular. Being a clumsy kid it was bound to happen all the time- narrow stairs, slick ice on rough pavement, an occasional slip onto hard cement, a scrape or a bruise here and there. It was normal, for someone like me-clumsy, blundering Bella. As I grow older the sting of a new scrape grew addicting, the ice hot pain that jolted through my body enticed me- the slight burn of opened skin made me feel something, as opposed to the nothingness that often consumed me. Over time- scraped knees became scraped arms- soon after scraped thighs, scraped stomach, scraped legs… a flawed, scraped Bella.

I picked at the bandages on my arms on the way to the hospital, Charlie liked to call it an Institution- a place where I could get better, become whole again, and deep down- a place where he doesn't have to deal with me anymore. Charlie was scraped too, over time. He was the susceptible, soft surface who was forced to bear witness to how I grinded myself down into a stub with my actions, my thoughts, my pain, of course he was the one to find me in the bathtub, just in the knick of time. Scraped.

Growing up I was mostly alone, Charlie was at work most of the time and I was just left to myself. My mother had run off when I was young and left Charlie and I to start our own family. At school it was the same way as well, most of my classmates formed friendships and groups without me, as I always in the background, just out of sight, almost like I didn't exist.

It was in eighth grade when the scraping happened, the rough, burning sensation that ignited my fires. One day in the bathroom I was washing my hands, turning the soap over and over, forming tiny bubbles when a hand reaching for the soap dispenser disrupted my thoughts. A slender, pale white hand. As the hand went to pump the soap out of the dispenser her sleeve lifted up just a little, a thin, angry lines peered out at me, rough, jagged array of scratches, scrapes.

I gasped at the sight of it, and looked at the girl in a mix between horror and curiosity. Of course the now red-faced girl bumbled out of the bathroom with soap bubbles still in her hands after my reaction, but I wanted to let her know that it was ok, that I understood her. Seeing what I saw, I knew what was missing in my life, the release, the alleviation of pain. And from there- it spiraled.

Until the day of the bathtub. Where poor Charlie had to fish me out with tears streaming down his face, my heart still breaks recalling the memory. It wasn't about hurting him- something I would never want- it was about freedom, freedom from the scraping, freedom from the loneliness, just freedom. It was right after a particularly hard day of high school- the kind where you just wanted to go home and rest. I suppose I'm lucky Charlie decided to leave work early on that exact day-I still have no idea how he was able to get me to the hospital that fast. Since then the both of us, including some doctors, decided that a mental health institution would be the best option for me. They assured me that I would be around people my age, and that there I could seek the treatment that I needed.

I understood that I was unwell. I understood that I needed help. Glanced up at the rear view mirror and locked eyes with my father for the last time in a long time as we pulled up to the gates.

My new home.