Scott woke up. His throat hurt from screaming, tears rolling down his face.
He was alone. His Mum was working night shift, his Father gone again.
No one came into his room, no one asked if he was okay.
If someone had entered Scott McCall's bedroom right then they would be greeted by a horrifying site.
Scott sat, shaking on his bed, claws out, slowly being dug into his skin, across the inside of his untarnished wrist.
He signed in relief as the blood slowly built up on the cut before leaking out, falling in small drops onto his crisp white bed linen. The physical pain helped him deal with his troubles mentally. Or at least that's what Scott told himself as he gradually made the fourth carving into his wrist, before turning over and falling back into another restless sleep.
