A/N: This is South before Guarding the Spark- a much younger South, around thirteen or fourteen.
The rest of this piece speaks for itself.
She wouldn't let herself cry. Her shell was in its infancy , barely cloaking the self she was learning to hide- her true self, her fragile self.
So instead she drew.
Criss-cross, sloping, curving, straight.
Lines.
Sad lines, angry lines, empty lines, guilty lines.
Lines on her inner arm, thigh, wrist.
Red lines.
The droplets were the only tears she would allow.
"Are you happy now, fuckers?" She hissed in pain as the silver carved another line into her flesh.
But South knew they never would be.