Disclaimer: I own nothing. Never have. Never will.

I sit on my bed watching lightning dance across the nighttime sky and listen to the low rumbling of thunder. I look at the clock. 3:17, damn three more hours till I get up for school. I begin to wonder what it would feel like to be struck by lightning. Would it hurt? Would it kill me? What would it be like to die? A slight laugh emits from my fragile body. Here I am, a girl of 14, perfect body, beautiful skin, and looks to kill for, and I'm wondering what it would be like to die.

I've accepted the fact that these thoughts are common for me. Between never getting any attention from my four parents, being teased endlessly at school, falling in love with my best friend, and dealing with more step and half siblings than anyone should have to handle, my life sucks.

And yes, four parents. My mother and father divorced just before I was born. They later remarried, leaving me to be an unwanted rag doll, traded back and forth. Sometimes I almost envy my "siblings" my older half brother, Jeremy, is 17 and so involved with his girlfriend he hardly notices me. There's also my hyper active 10 year old step brothers, Chad and Cody. Then, on my father's side there is my half sister whom I barely know, Ashley, who is far too preppy for her own good.

I stand up and stretch my arms high above my head as if reaching for an escape from this hell hole, and wince as I feel one of my fresh wounds on my ribs open, sending shockwaves of pain throughout my body and chills down my spine. I look down and say "fuck! This is my last pajama top!" in a stage whisper when I see bright red blood slowly seeping through my white shirt. I tug at my top in frustration and walk down the short hall in our small apartment until I reach the bathroom. I close the door in a hurry when I hear the lock of the front door slowly turning. "Dammit, Lawrence is home." I say once again, in a stage whisper.

Cursing the life of my step father, I bend down onto all fours and peer into the cabinet under the sink. I stick my head all the way in and look up onto the ceiling of the small space silently searching for my trusty razor blade. Once I find my prize, I smirk, knowing that no one will ever find it.

I stand back up and look into the mirror for the first time since entering the bathroom. I take in the pathetic figure staring back at me. She's wearing a newly blood stained shirt that exposes much of her stomach and black P.E. shorts cutting off just below her knees. I step closer to the mirror and examine all the thin, pearly scars littering my abdomen, some in the shape of little pink and red hearts. I look down at my calves and see all the ones there as well, there's not nearly as many there as there is on my stomach though.

I snap back to reality and flick back my long, dark brown bangs out of my eyes. My grip of the razor tightens and my stomach clenches, I drag the razor from the bottom of my ribs, across my belly button, to the top of my shorts. I look back in the mirror and study my stomach as tiny beads of blood slowly form in a line. I smile lightly but turn serious and I tighten my stomach once again and dig the razor deep into my flesh. My favorite spot too, just below my shirt, along a familiar scar. I cherish the moment, and my skin tingles and crawls with anticipation. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up as I slowly drag the edge about three inches.

I close my eyes and struggle to regain control over my breathing when I realize that I'm panting. I don't have much time though, because good ol' Larry interrupts me by banging on the door.

"Victoria, hurry your ass up!"

I silently flip off the man I call my stepfather on the other side of the door

"Don't make me come in there you stupid bitch!"

A smirk slowly makes its way into my features and I reply "go ahead, I dare you." Without even attempting to mask the defiance and contempt in my voice.

He jiggles the handle furiously, only to find it locked. In his anger, he throws his shoulder into the door, startling me enough to make me jump with alarm. "what a drunken brute," I quietly whisper to myself.

I slowly back myself into the wall and slide down until I find myself seated on the floor with my knees brought up to my chest and my arms wrapped around my body. Lawrence staggers down the hall into the room he shares with my mother, making enough noise that I'm surprised no one wakes up. Even from hear I can smell the alcohol on him. My gaze travels around the room, from the stucco ceiling, to the tack shower curtain, to the dirty sink, and finally to the small collection or drops of blood gathered on the linoleum tile. Apparently I went deeper than I thought. I smile lazily and my mind slowly succumbs to the soothing escape of sleep.

AN: So yeah this is my first story. Be kind. Aubrey will come in after a few chapters so don't think that this is just some random original story posted on here as a poser. Feedback is cool but flames are not. If you don't like it, don't read it. Simple as that.