So this talks about cutting and etc, so if that's not for you, please, stop reading. You've been warned.
It was easy to hide the truth. Easier with them, because none of them payed attention long enough to see. Truth comes in many forms, and for Cameron, it was this, the dragging of the blade across her pale flesh. It had become a ritual. Home, shower, eat, cut. Every night the knife sunk into her flesh, joining the pale pink scars and the fresher burgundy marks. Each line, some jagged, some eerily smooth, held a unique story. Each cut held the truth. But no one was looking close enough to see it. So every day she wore long sleeves or chunky bracelets. It was easy to hide the truth.
To be fair, this was just on chapter in an entire book. This had all started in the seventh grade, when she was young and beautiful. Her story was not unique. Back then, she hadn't dealt with that much pain, aside from her father, but even then he wasn't special or evil, he just didn't care. She hadn't been able to sleep. She remembered that night so clearly, how loud the rain was, beating down on the house. She had just been wandering around the house, when she found the knife. It was so sharp, and beautiful, in a frightening way. The blade was long and smooth and silver. It cut through newspapers, and her hair, and string, and, when she placed it against her wrist, it cut through her.
Since then cutting had become a ritual, an escape. Most of the scars were from House, one for the date, the kiss, the hug, every look and banter. Each had a separate wound, a memoir. To Cameron, cutting made her stronger. If she could handle the dizzying pain of her self-mutilation, surely she could handle him? But the truth was simple, she couldn't. So she just kept on cutting, over and over, wanting to be noticed. And until that day, she would hide the truth.