A/N Writing is therapy, right?

She was Disaster Girl.

Everything she touched, it shattered. It burned. It broke.

Irreparable.

Disastrous.

She didn't cry for help. She didn't want anyone to reach out to her, because surely she'd break them too.

She didn't want to break stuff. It just happened.

She went through a catalogue in her head, trying to calculate the messes she'd made, to see if she could understand just how things went wrong.

Possessions. Teddy bears, iPods, computers, CDs, books. Whether hers or other people's belongings, in her hands they'd surely fall apart.

(did she have disaster hands too?)

Trust. Be it her parents (she'd disappointed them too many times. She wasn't like her brothers or sisters. She didn't meet that standard) Her friends. (So many chances they'd given)... Her boyfriend (what was that about love?)

Love. She hadn't meant to break him, honest. She'd thought he was indestructible, and that she could finally be something to someone.

(she was wrong)

She looked down at her hands, at her latest casualty. A broken glass. She bent down numbly, grabbing the shards carelessly and throwing them in the trash, making her hands cut and bleed in the process. She smeared her hands down her shirt, leaving a reddish trail to dry.

(Oh look another mess...)

The biggest thing she'd broken though, was definitely herself.

She thought about the girl she'd been, up to the middle of middle school. (a coincidence, no?) Happy. Loved. Maybe not popular, but she managed.

How had it gone wrong?

There'd been so many people to please, to make happy, to make them like her. She found a few amazing friends, but somehow that group never expanded. Somehow they, just the three of them, always ended up on the edge of the class, caught in their own little world. She hadn't broken them quite yet, she reflected, but it was only a matter of time.

(Right now Disaster seemed happy with her friend's possessions and self confidences)

She didn't recognise herself, not really. There were a few straight line scars marking her arms, not many, not deep, not fresh, not recognisable. But there, nonetheless. She'd gained weight, possibly much too much. (wasn't that the opposite of what she'd been aiming for?)

The door banged open, and she turned slowly, seeing her mother. She fell apart in the woman's disappointed gaze, and started to shake as she came towards her.

"I love you," Her mom said, wrapping a home-knitted scarf around her daughter's neck. The girl's eyes filled with tears, and she returned the hug.

"Sorry for disappointing you." She whispered. Her mom smiled and left quietly.

Renewed, the girl started towards the door, and felt a gentle tug behind her. Unheeding, she moved on, only to be frozen in her tracks by a loud ripping noise. She looked down slowly, seeing the large tear in the scarf that her mom had spent time knitting for her. Loving her.

A humourless laugh made its way up her throat.

Of course.

(I mean, she was Disaster Girl, after all.)

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