Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, I had to practise for my guitar exam, but it's all over and done with now. Thank you so much for all the reviews and people adding me to story alerts and favourite authors lists and things, I really am incredibly grateful. I hope you enjoy this update :)

People get hurt.

They fall over and slam into things, suffer through earthquakes and hurricanes; they get their hearts broken and lose the people they love, contract illnesses and become seized by disease.

There is always something to show for it – always. Their suffering brands them with battle scars; white lines that never fade from their skin, marks that cannot be erased; cuts and bruises that don't always last, but that can still be felt long after they're gone, out of sight but not out of mind; they wear broken hearts on their sleeves, smiles that stretch their faces all wrong, because they let someone in who fucked them over and left them alone to deal with the aftermath. All of it tells a story, the words written on war-weary bodies, making all the shit that ever happened to them fucking impossible to forget.

That is all Naomi wants. To forget.

She wants to forget that all of this is familiar, every sign and symptom reminiscent of years before. She wants to forget how she suffered, how everything hurt all the time and how something was always breaking in her mother's eyes. She wants to forget that this ruined her life, took away her innocence and her childhood and her fucking father.

Naomi wants to forget, but she can't, because she can't even look at herself without the thoughts exploding in her head, firing from every synapse and nerve ending in her brain, triggered by the sight of the contusions that are blooming on her body; she needs to get rid of them, needs them to be gone so she can have some fucking peace inside her head and live in denial just that little bit longer.

People get hurt by other people.

But sometimes people hurt themselves.

It is that thought that makes Naomi pick herself up from the cold tile of the bathroom floor, where she had slumped against the toilet in defeat and utter exhaustion, and make her way shakily towards the medecine cabinet that's fixed above the sink. She takes the razor with steady hands, slides to the floor with her back pressed into the bath, and starts breaking apart the plastic with her hands. She knows this is really fucking stupid and will solve absolutely nothing, but she is desperate to experience the burn of a different kind of pain than the one that is making her eyes water and her stomach clench, desperate to change the problem into one she knows how to fix, that she can control.

Naomi frees the blade easily. She rolls up the shirt sleeve of her left arm to the soundtrack of her heart beating unsteadily in her ears, and Naomi listens to it carefully, thinking of the logistics of Morse code and searching for hidden messages, all too eager for something to tell her what the fuck she should do.

Naomi sees the bruise on her wrist, big and black and malignant, and she loses it.

She drags the blade over her skin in quick, jagged lines, whimpering at the fierce sting that immediately follows, and she cuts harder and faster as the blood wells up from the wounds and slides down her arm, burying the bruises she is dying to be rid of. It really fucking hurts, and Naomi squeezes her eyes shut against the pain and relishes it, the glorious distraction from all the shit she vehemently refuses to process. She cuts until the bruised skin is torn to pieces, unrecognisable from the damage, and she doesn't have to think about it anymore.

It feels good, but fuck, there is a lot of blood; it has soaked into the material of her shirt, is hot and slick on her arms and hands and thighs, pooling on the bathroom floor, and Naomi panics, rushes to the sink and tries to wash it all away. The pressure from the water stings like a bitch, and as it clears the blood from her injured arm, the cuts she's made become visible, a criss-cross pattern of lines that mask a horror Naomi refuses to relive again.

She presses a wad of toilet paper to her skin until the bleeding stops, before tugging her shirt over her head and tossing it in the bin; it is only when she goes to clean the blood off the tiles that it hits her.

Red.

Suddenly, Emily is everywhere – Naomi can feel her in her veins, her head, her heart, and it makes her pick up the blade from the bathroom sink and dig the metal edge into every bruise in her line of sight, and she's fucking crying while at it, but she doesn't let up until every black and blue bit of skin is a brilliant red and there's not a trace of the truth to be found.

;;

By the time Emily wakes, Naomi has cleaned up the bathroom so that it no longer looks like a slaughter house and has showered and dressed, concealed in a long-sleeved black shirt and dark blue jeans even though it's pushing thirty degrees outside.

(She doesn't want Emily to see).

"Morning, beautiful," Naomi whispers, crouching before Emily at the side of her bed and brushing her tousled fringe back from her forehead; the sleepy smile she receives in return makes guilt pool in her stomach. It feels heavy, like it's been lined with lead.

"Morning," Emily replies, voice hoarse and deliciously husky from sleep, leaning in to kiss Naomi. It's all very lovely and warm and enjoyable until Emily starts to suck on Naomi's bottom lip, run her palms over her tits and down her ribcage and then Naomi's pulling away and pushing her hands off because she knows where this is going and if Emily sees the state of her –

"Em, not now – we'll be late for college," Naomi mumbles, carefully avoiding Emily's eyes, which she knows will be darkened with hurt and confusion at the rejection.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and chances a glance upward; Emily's brow is furrowed, and the blatant concern on her face makes Naomi feel like the world's biggest twat. "Everything okay, Naoms?" Emily asks, smoothing her hand down the blonde's arm comfortingly; her fingertips ghost over the lacerations Naomi's made in her skin, and she snatches her arm away lightning quick, panic-stricken and gasping as the wound throbs painfully like an erratic pulse. "Naoms?" Emily's voice is laced with worry as she sits up in the bed and reaches out for her girlfriend.

"Don't!" Naomi snaps, increasing the distance between them as she scrambles backwards, visibly shaken; it hurts to have Emily touch her, when she's like this, when she's done what she's done to herself, because the pain and distress it would cause her is something Naomi wants to never have to witness – though that was why she cut the shit out of herself in the first place, to keep Emily safe; it would hurt less, Naomi thinks, this lie (although lying to Emily leaves a bitter taste on her tongue and at the back of her throat, acidic, slowly dissolving her deceptions, and she knows it's only a matter of time before the truth comes out). But it would hurt nonetheless.

Emily has recoiled in shock, her large doe eyes wide and turned down the corners, shining with something that squeezes Naomi's heart so tight she fears it will burst in her chest, and she really fucking hates how despite her best efforts and promises and lies, she is breaking Emily all over again.

Time is suspended between them for a long moment, Naomi frantically searching for a way to fix things, because this is totally fucked now, because Emily knows that Naomi is keeping something from her; it's written in the shape of her mouth, the confusion in her eyes. But then Emily is a blur of movement, throwing off the duvet and leaping from the bed, and Naomi's stuttering out words that she's positive make no sense (she sounds like fucking JJ, for Christ's sake) and she moves to stand up and stop Emily from leaving. But though Emily is dressing hastily, throwing on random pieces of clothing, she's still predominantly naked, and Naomi can see the smooth skin of her back and shoulderblades, perfectly flawless, and jealousy flares within her, sewing her throat shut and seizing up her muscles, and she can only watch helplessly as Emily leaves her.

Before she does, Emily fixes Naomi with a look that is equal parts angry and incredibly hurt, and it's so horrible Naomi forces herself to keep looking, because she deserves to feel like complete and utter shit. "I thought we were past this," she says, and the words sound like broken glass, shredding her throat. "I thought…" Emily takes a deep breath. "You're supposed to trust me, Naoms. You're not supposed to hide things from me anymore." Emily's eyes are hard, accusing, but Naomi can see the hurt lurking behind them, like distant images underwater. She takes a small step towards the blonde. "So please, just tell me – what's going on?"

Naomi stares long and hard at the pleading look on Emily's face, the tears that are threatening to spill over her cheeks.

(She's seen this before, except the crying eyes were blue like her own, watering under the weight of Naomi's failures, and it wasn't truth they were pleading for.

Then he left. And never came back).

Naomi stays silent. Emily leaves.

Naomi prays with absolutely every fibre of her being that unlike her father, Emily isn't gone for good.

;;

Later that night, Naomi's world disintegrates around her.

Effy had come to see her earlier in the day (she'd decided that college could fuck itself – she really wasn't in the mood, and it wasn't like her mother gave a rat's arse anyway) and they had smoked an entire pack of Malboro Lights between them in Naomi's back garden before either of them uttered a word.

And it was nice, the silence, calming; Naomi had been grateful for the chance to clear her head, work through every racing thought that plagued her without anyone pushing her for answers she doesn't have or know how to give (it didn't work. She still has no fucking clue what to do) and Effy's presence had been comforting, almost.

They had laid side by side on the grass, shoulders, elbows and feet touching, and Naomi had thought that if she labelled people in such a way, Effy would be her best friend; she had Cook, too, but he was still always trying to sleep with her, and she and Katie couldn't quite be alone for long periods of time without arguing about some shit or the other, and Emily – well, Emily was something entirely different.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Naomi said, staring straight up at the sky; the sun's harsh glare had burned patches of orange into her eyelids. She fiddled with her lighter, sending a flash of flame dangerously close to the skin of her hand. "That was a bit shit."

Effy looked over at her, and Naomi clicked the lighter again, felt the burning heat against her thigh beneath the fabric of her jeans. "Yeah," Effy agreed, blinking slowly. "You're forgiven," she added, and Naomi could hear the smirk in her voice, couldn't help but smile herself.

Effy rolled onto her side, propped herself up on an elbow and focused intently on Naomi's face to catch her reaction: "Emily's angry at you."

The blonde flicked her eyes in Effy's direction, throat and jaw tight, and she had to force her words out. "I know." A beat. "I fucked up again."

"She knows you're hiding something," Effy revealed, taking in Naomi's attire with a solemn face, how it covered almost every inch of her skin. Naomi's heart rate sped up. "Said you wouldn't let her touch you."

Naomi bit her lip hard, stayed silent.

"She also said something about bruises."

When Naomi flicked the lighter that time, her hand had been shaking so badly it slipped, her fingers briefly caught in the white-hot flame, and a strangled noise escaped her throat that had little to do with the pain. Effy snatched the lighter off her and threw it across the grass, interlocking her fingers with Naomi's burned ones and resting them over the blonde's chest, directly above the bruise everyone but Effy assumed to be Emily's fault; a bruise that had now been distorted and disfigured with the metal edge of a blade, disguised as a symptom of something entirely different. Naomi felt her eyes water as Effy pressed their conjoined hands against the mark beneath her shirt, feeling with her fingertips the raised and scabbed skin, reading it like braille, part of a story with an ending Naomi is so fucking scared of she just can't admit it's happening.

"There was a boy in my primary school called Eric," Effy stated quietly, and Naomi flinched at the use of the past tense. "We used to play together, draw pictures and do puzzles and play twenty questions. He was lovely." No no no no no, please just shut up…

(Naomi didn't want to know).

"Eric got sick," Effy said. "He was tired all the time, too tired to play games, so we'd sit beneath a tree in the playground away from the other kids and be quiet together." Effy's voice was straining, rough around the edges and Naomi wished she'd stop talking because she knew what Effy was getting at (though she was desperately pretending she didn't). "He was always little, but he got smaller and smaller week after week, and his skin starting changing colour in places; he was blue and purple and black all over, and not once did anyone think to send him to a doctor to see what was wrong."

Something in Effy's face changed, and Naomi braced herself.

"We were sitting under the tree one day when Eric started screaming in agony and bleeding from every orifice he had. He was dead within a minute."

Effy was trying not to cry, her bright eyes wet and her grip on Naomi's hand tightening, and Naomi felt hot tears slide down her own cheeks, scorching her skin, because she could see the memory flash in her friend's eyes; how incredibly fucking awful, to see something like that, she thought, just as the danger of her denial hit her hard in the gut and she nearly crumpled into herself. Effy bent down to press a kiss to Naomi's forehead, before curling her body around her and promising, "I won't let that be you, Naomi."

Naomi had cried into Effy's neck until her throat was raw, neither girl moving as the sun died behind the clouds in a kaleidoscope of colour. "I'm scared, Eff," Naomi whispered, pulling back to look her friend in the eye. "I'm so fucking scared."

Effy remained silent, but the black smudges under her eyes, the tight line of her mouth and the grip she had on Naomi's body told her that Effy was scared, too.

;;

Hours later, when Effy has gone home to check on Anthea with promises to return at some point, Naomi is still lying on the grass, which has cooled with the night air and acts like a balm against the skin of her back where her shirt has ridden up, and it's proving to be very soothing. She is still crying, a steady flow of tears tracking across her cheeks, because she's stopped lying to herself, and that was the only thing that had been holding her together. Naomi thinks of the last time this had happened, how she had collapsed into her father's arms and screamed about the injustice of it all, praying to God she'd make it through alive.

She had. But now it's back. And Naomi knows she might not be alive for much longer.

That thought vanishes from her head when she hears the screaming; it is distant, but Naomi can feel it echoing in her head and vibrating in her bones; when Naomi realises it's coming from her own house, she's on her feet so fast she almost plummets to the floor again. She shoots through the back door, establishes the sound is coming from upstairs, and that the person screaming is her mother.

Acoustics tell her that her mum is in the bathroom, and Naomi is pretty sure she has never moved so fast in her life – she is relatively certain she knows what this is all about, and a mantra of no no no no no please God no is playing in her head even as she crashes through the bathroom door and sees that actually, yes.

Gina is sprawled on the tiled floor, eyes red and shining and choking out words that make no sense, clutching Naomi's t-shirt in her hands, the t-shirt that is soiled with her blood, the silver blade that caused all the damage abandoned on the floor in front of her. Naomi feels sick to her stomach.

"Shhh, mum it's okay, it's okay," Naomi stutters out, voice breaking on every word as she kneels in front of Gina and tugs the blood-stained material from her hands, tossing it to the side along with the blade, and fuck, why didn't I hide it or throw it away and fuck fuck fuck –

"Naomi," Gina cries, staring at her with devastated eyes (Naomi feels shame and guilt flood every single cell in her body at the horror she's caused), "what did you do?"

Naomi opens and closes her mouth, shaking her head as more tears leak from her eyes, blurring her vision (she can still see the pain etched into every feature of her mum's face). She hates herself for doing this to Gina, because this isn't new either, the sharp edges and scars and lies and blood, and she knows damn well how fucking much it hurt her mum the first time, and Jesus she's a selfish bitch –

"Naomi!" Her voice is louder now, pleading, her hands shaking her daughter's shoulders, "what the fuck did you do?"

The words won't come, and they wouldn't make sense anyway, because this isn't about the self harm, not at all; it's about history repeating itself, again, in the worst fucking way possible, and the words she needs to explain that to her mum won't fit in her head, or roll off her tongue, because it's far too big for her to handle alone. So instead, Naomi fists the material of her shirt into her hands, pulls it over her head, and reveals the horror she's been hiding.

The sound Gina lets out when she sees the mess Naomi's made of herself is heart-wrenching, a dissonant, stacatto note that rips into Naomi's body deeper than any pocketknife or scalpel ever has. Naomi can't stand to look at her face, because she hasn't even shown her the worst of it yet and Gina is torn to pieces already.

"I'm so sorry," Naomi whispers, dreading what she has to do next.

Naomi turns around on the bathroom floor, and feels her heart break when her mother screams.

(The bruises are still visible on her back, where Naomi had not been able to see or reach them with the blade, unable to carve them from her skin like the others to keep up the pretense of normality; they are still there, refusing to fade, and it tells Gina exactly what is going on).

The word hangs between them, malignant, as Gina spins her daughter back round and crushes her to her chest, and Naomi feels it resonate in her bones as she squeezes her mum back twice as hard.

Relapse.