She sat on her hard bed, lumpy quilt and all, with her head bowed at a 45 degree angle. Her vibrant, stringy fringe fell into her eyes, pouncing at every opportunity to annoy Misty more than she already was. Her pig-tails, tied with royal blue hair-ties and scrunched in angst, fell lifelessly vertical, brushing her bony shoulders and caressing her face shape, which was ironically heart-shaped. Pan down further and you could see her lemon yellow tank top stretch to its limits over her large breasts, cleavage clearly on show. That was the only asset about herself that she admired, her breasts. Despite her dramatic, sudden weightless, her breasts had stayed pert and full, unlike her bottom, which had inevitably become flat and aged a good few years due to her BMI of just 15.8. She stood up, standing her full 5 feet, with her head facing the wall, eyes staring hard at some kind of nothingness and hands clenching furiously; so furiously that her petite knuckles were painted a cool shade of grey-blue, which quickly turned to a pale, lifeless white. She stood for a minute or two, clenching her fists and staring at the blank, paper-white wall, the hurt becoming more and more visible with every passing second; every ticking-tocking-mocking second. Misty glanced at the wooden-framed clock that featured to her left. It was 7 minutes, 42 seconds to midnight.

'It's not a new day, yet…' she told herself, 'I could still do this…'

She opened her now-skin like-coloured knuckles to reveal a dull grey razor, speckled with flecks of brown, dried blood.

'I could still do this… I promised it would start tomorrow… I c-could…st-still do th-this…'

Stuttering, the words that she wanted to hear obviously weren't arising. Her thoughts were once again to herself and nobody was around to protect her, only the blade to make a difference to her thought-process.

'If I don't do this, I could end u-up doing…someth-thing worse…Way worse…' she told herself as she fondled the sharp edge of the monster, blue-green eyes glistening. Fat, salty tears rolled down her sunken, acne-prone cheeks and left little water droplet-shaped patches across her bed linen.

'I'll never be good enough for you!"

She snatched the razor blade firmly into her grip and held onto it so tightly that it strained itself to stay as a whole. It was as if the blade wanted to stay in the best condition it could, so it could be used for whenever Misty needed it. The evil little blighter stayed rigid in Misty's petite-yet-strong fingers until she'd had enough of waiting, enough of the fighting. She wanted it all to stop.

'It's always about her! Me? ME? You don't care about silly, stupid little me! Ignore my problems and I, ignore everything we have ever done for you! I don't need you; you or your entourage of big-headed, loud-mouthed, self-centred little friends that have done nothing in their power to find out how I'm actually feeling. I don't need you, or her, or her, or her, or HER!' Misty yelled. For every word, she cut another horizontal line into her scar-plagued, skinny arm.

'I've helped! I've helped her the best I could! With problems that I myself am dealing with right now. I could use a little bit of help. I could use a friend at the current moment! But I'm not loud enough, I'm not as attention seeking as her! All you ever seem to care about is her silly little plight for attention!'

Blood started to weave in and out of the fresh cuts on her arm, some pouring with blood and others barely reddening a pinkish colour. She continued to do it, not caring about the blood splashing over her bed clothes, dying them a burgundy-red colour.

'I'm sorry I can't be perfect! I don't even love you! You're my friend, that is all, and all I wanted was for you to ask me what was wrong for once! I spend every single god-damn night crying until my throat aches and my eyes sting because nobody cares and nobody ever will!'

More gashes appeared over her bare, fatless thighs in the form of the words: 'Too fat' and 'alone.' Misty stared at her legs and arms as the blood flowed through her veins and arteries and appeared as red as ever on her pale skin. The contrast between the two colours spurred Misty on to keep doing this to herself; she craved the blood and the pain, the feel of the blade and the relief.

'I sound so fucking clichéd! I bet you'd be fucking proud.' Misty sighed, leant back onto her bed's headboard and looked at the ceiling. 'I know you'll never care for me as much as her. I know she'll never care enough to appreciate my opinions…Or at least appreciate my help. She's never said thank you to me. Ever. And I doubt she ever will!' Misty shot up and scrunched up her pretty little face as tears carried on rolling from her eyes. She clenched her teeth, put the razor back into the case and threw it, full force, at the window. The casing triple-flipped in the air before hitting the pane of glass, breaking it, falling out of her bedroom window and landing on the roof of her shed. 'Why isn't this ever simple?'

'It is. It can be.'

She turned towards the Victorian doorframe with no matching door and saw him standing there. He tapped his foot impatiently and stared into her eyes. She broke the stare, told him to leave and turned away from him, painting the walls of her bedroom red with her not-yet-clotted blood. He stood there, refusing to move of course, with his head hung in shame.

'Now, who were you talking about? I've been here the whole time, Misty, I've heard everything you said…'

'Him.' She replied, stern faced, 'That freak. He cares about Joy more than he ever will me. He's meant to be my friend but he doesn't care!' She looked at him, Ash, standing at the door with his deep brown eyes full of sadness. 'I'm so sorry, baby…'