8. someone lonely, colouring in their marks black, and one won't wash off later
"It's not fair," Pavel mutters quietly, looking at the four black marks on his wrist. "It's not fair."
He gave up on the principles-of-thermodynamics essay a while ago; it's boring, and he knows what grade he's going to get for it anyway. The professor doesn't like him. At first, he tried to change that; now he just doesn't care. He's only got this guy for a few more weeks and then it's someone new.
The marks aren't really black, he's only coloured them in. Just to pretend for a little while.
The first one was the worst. His mother laughed and told him it meant he was growing up; his little sister squealed and begged him to tell who it was for. He lied and said it was a girl he knew from advanced mathematics. It was half-true, but it wasn't a girl.
He still wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't told them the truth. Did he care what they thought of him? Yes, on some level at least; they were his family, of course he cared. Did that control him? Unlikely. Was he afraid? Probably.
He sighs internally, stands up and walks into the cramped bathroom. After the repeated application of hot water and soap, three of the four black lines have gone back to red. The fourth he scrubs until the surrounding skin is pink and raw, but it remains black.
The smile stays on his face all night.
