Cammie had made about three cuts before her hands began to shake.
It wasn't that she couldn't handle the blade opening her flesh. Far from it. Three months of practice had left scars all over her arms as proof. It was the shallowness of the cuts that made it different. She had never made cuts this deep before, never felt so much blood run down her wrist.
Cammie leaned her head back and relished in the mental relief that came with the physical pain. She was trying hard not to think about him, yet thinking of nothing but.
Josh.
It would have been their one year anniversary today. And he was spending it with that blonde slut Dee Dee.
Her arm was flowing as she made another slit, and then another. Biting back cries of pain for each one so nobody would hear her, she slid the blade over her skin over and over. Slowly, the cuts formed a word.
Her sobs were uncontrollable now. Tears tracked down her dirty cheeks, but nobody was there to hear them fall.
Cammie hated this. Her life was going to be perfect. She was going to be top of the CIA, she knew it. But Josh had come in and he'd been ripped away before she had the shot to tell the normal-boy from Roseville how she felt. That she loved him.
And now the only boy who had ever made her feel like she wasn't invisible was barred from her forever.
Zach. Cammie laughed, a weakened but cruel sound, at his name. Handsome, funny, cocky, mysterious, he was everything a girl could want. But he could never compare to Josh. That kiss they shared before summer break meant nothing to her. He was nothing more than a mere replacement.
Chameleon, she thought bitterly. It used to be a compliment, a fact signaling the natural spying ability she had. But recently it had become a burden. A reminder to something she hated being.
She wondered what cruel divine being made her so plain. What made her eyes so dull, and her hair so boring. How could she blend in enough that no one in this goddamned spy school, not even her supposed best friends, cared enough to notice the gaunt look in her eyes, or the fact she never wore anything but long-sleeves anymore.
Even in her own home, Gallagher Academy, she wasn't seen.
She never would be again.
The bleeding slowed, but didn't stop. The short break from the mental sadness was coming to a close, and Cammie was getting tired. Briefly she considered suicide, letting herself bleed until her last breath, but repelled the idea. She was to afraid of what might lie there for her after death to be wrapped in its embrace just yet.
Sighing, she began washing the blood of her arm with a water bottle, before wrapping some gauze she'd swiped from the infirmary around her wrist. The cuts were still bleeding, but nothing the gauze couldn't hold back. Nothing make-up couldn't cover when they had healed.
Once that was taken care off, she rolled her sleeves down, forced a smile on, and walked out of the passageway, into the halls where all her sisters walked. Hiding the scars she knew nobody would see, but was forever etched in her skin. The word that had plagued her for years.
Invisible