She took a deep breath before looking down at the message on her phone. The text confirmed her worst fears. He had cheated on her. With her best friend. She had been betrayed by the two people she thought loved her most. Her next breath was shaky and slow. It couldn't be real. She reread the text over and over, the words never changing. A text saying it was all a joke never came. Her head started to ache, her eyes filled with tears. Soon the sobs racked her body and she cried until it seemed there wasn't another tear left in her entire body. When her eyes were dry, she made a rash decision she would later regret. She would cut. It had been three months since her last cut. Three months since she sunk to the lowness of watching herself bleed. Three long months of recovery, fighting urges, and counseling. All of the literal blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into those three months would soon come crashing down all around her. And she would be at fault. But at that point she didn't care. The blade seemed to be her only reliable release. The only thing that was there for her, when everyone else was flighty and uncertain. So she did the only thing that made sense. She slid off her bed onto the floor and reached under the bed. Out came a Converse shoe box. She sat back against the bed and opened the box to find new razors, a lighter, bracelets, band-aids, scar cream, a sharpie and paper towels. A cutter's emergency kit. The only self harm materials she'd kept. She pulled out a razor and set the box down next to her. The razor was brand new and caught the light. Little reflections danced around the room in the dusk light. With a shallow breath, she pressed the blade to her skin. Then slowly slid the blade across her skin. She winced at the feeling. When she pulled the blade off, the blood on her wrist made her nauseous. Is it worth it? A voice somewhere in her head asked. It was soon drowned out by the other voices telling her she was an ugly, whore who deserved to be cheated on. She deserved to cut herself. She swallowed and moved the blade down a half an inch. Faster this time, she pressed the blade into her skin and cut it. This cut was deeper and was more painful. She didn't care. She had the hardest cuts down. The rest was easy. Before long, the tears were back, mixing with the blood on her wrist as made marks all down her wrist. Soon she was too drained emotionally, physically and mentally to continue. She held a paper towel to the only cut still bleeding. It stopped bleeding and she packed the box up again, just as neat and organized as when she'd taken it out and slid the box back under the bed. Then she got into bed, turned off her light, and fell into a deep coma-like sleep.