Cam sat at the kitchen table, wishing he could just go to his room. His parents were sitting side by side opposite him, staring at him with a concerned look on their faces. This isn't the first time they had asked to speak to him privately.
Cam started to sweat, and his body tensed. He was nervous about where this conversation might go. He gnawed on the side of his cheek, the pain made him feel a bit relieved.
"Cam, would you like to talk to us about anything?" asked his mother in a gentle voice.
He sat there motionless, absorbing the question. He wished he could say yes, but as always shook his head, avoiding eye contact. His mother sighed, unconvinced by his gesture.
"Cam, I was doing the washing today, and I noticed stains on the sleeves of your jackets."
Cam froze.
"Have you been harming yourself Cam?"
Cam panicked. He only had moments to try to think of an explanation for the blood stains on his clothing. He had been so careful in covering up any evidence of hurting himself, how did his mother find the jackets?
"Mum, I'm not some loser who tries to hurt himself. I got some paint on my jacket in art class; I was going to wash it later so you wouldn't notice".
Just as his mother was about to speak, the doorbell rang. Cam took this as an opportunity to escape to his room. His parents watched as he left the table and walked upstairs.
"This conversation isn't over Cam!" his father said sternly, but Cam continued to walk up the stairs into his room, locking the door behind him.
He knew there would be no way out of this. His parents were already convinced he had been cutting himself, and there was no way he could change it. No matter what he said, they would ask him to roll up his sleeves. He collapsed on the ground behind his door with his head in his hands. He stayed there silently crying, feeling more pathetic with every teardrop. He hated himself more than ever. He hated feeling like this. All he could think about was grabbing his ice skate and slashing it against his forearm. But he fought to oppose that thought, as it would just make his situation worse. He stood up and pulled back his sleeve, looking at how much damage he had done to himself. There were so much wounds and scars covering his arm that there was hardly any untouched skin left. He gently moved his hand over them, remembering every reason behind each one.
His parents hadn't come for him yet, so he made his way to his bed, where he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his mother to knock on the door.