“Hey, do you have a pencil sharpener I can borrow?” She looked up from the French sentence she was writing and smiled at him, nodding. "Yes, wait." Her slender back arching as she bent sideways to rummage through her bag, she was back up in seconds with a blue pencil sharpener in her hand. "Here you go." He calmly took the contraption from her, nodding in thanks. He lowered his eyes as he turned the worn pencil over, imagining the tiny razor and screws inside that made it usable again. "You shouldn't do something like that to yourself." Dropping the pencil sharpener, his head shot up and he looked at her warily. "Huh?" That little smile still curved her lips, and her dark eyes seemed softer than usual. “You shouldn't do that to yourself,” he repeated. “I don't-” His fingers, still cold from holding an ice-cold bottle of water, suddenly curled around his forearm – his scarred arm. He inwardly flinched at her touch, having completely forgotten that the heat had made him reluctantly take off his jacket. “It's not good to hurt yourself. You should be happy." "It's... it's not that simple." "Of course it is," she said with a shrug. “Just don't do it. Be happy.” He narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “You can't tell me how to feel or what to do. You barely know me.” “You're right, but I can tell you this is a horrible thing you're doing to your skin. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I promise.” “But I don't—” Then the lunch bell rang, cutting him off mid-sentence She let go of his arm, which he hadn't realized she was still holding, and stood up smoothly before gathering his. things. “See you later. Keep in mind what I told you.” Giving him one last smile, she left the classroom. He hastily shrugged on his blaz... the center of the paper... the cabinet over the sink, but as soon as he started looking for the ointment, his eyes landed on something else. He grabbed a spare pack of razor blades. This is a stupid idea, he thought, even as he opened the package. I shouldn't do this. It's wrong. When he pressed the cold razor to his skin for the first time, his heart was pounding and he wanted to stop, but found he couldn't. And when he saw the blood running down his arm, he gasped. He ran the razor across his skin once more and took a shaky breath. It was an amazing feeling: painful, but pleasant. Reckless, but satisfying. He couldn't remember what happened after those first two cuts, only that when he woke up in the morning and saw his arm, he felt strangely happy. Even though he couldn't control most of the pain in his life, he could control this. He wanted more.