Please, please, please, please, please, Gods, if you're up there, please brainwash Fieldson so that he can't give us homework for the next term-preferably forever. Please, please, please... Actually, scratch that. Let's try that again. Please, please, please, please get him fired, or perhaps exploded off the face of this earth (maybe that was slightly drastic) or something. Either way, don't let this webpage open displaying  more maths homework...

I sighed and thumped my head on the keyboard as my desperate prayers were rudely ignored. Next to the picture of the Redpark High crest in the top left corner of the screen, there was a flashing notice that told me that 'STUDENTS OF CLASS 84M HAVE FIVE SEPARATE PIECES OF REVISION TO COMPLETE OVER THE CHRISTMAS BREAK. SET:TODAY. FAILURE TO COMPLETE ALL FIVE WILL RESULT IN AN HOUR'S DETENTION WHEN TERM STARTS AGAIN.' 

This was one of Mr Fieldson's favourite methods of student torture-setting at least four pieces of double-page homework, waiting a while to fool his victims before attacking again a few days later in the form of posting up notices like this. I hadn't even managed to finish the first stack of questions that he had given us on the last day of term, and now he was oh-so-kindly blackmailing us again with detention if we didn't finish even more pointless questions. Why couldn't school realise that at least ninety percent of all students were never going to use algebra when they left school, and as a result decide to substitute Maths lessons for free periods. Then, I was sure, the attendance rate would be far higher as at least five people in my form skipped class every single day.My phone pinged the moment I reached for it, and I knew immediately who the text was from. Fieldson's just given us another mountain of sheets! I've come up with a theory that he's trying to slowly kill us-what do you think?

I giggled. Yes, that was definitely true to some extent. Of course he is! He's making sure that none of us last the year, I swear. Come over right now. We could attempt to draw fanart? A reply came almost instantly. Count me in. I'll see you in ten.

And then I remembered. So, what were we now that we'd kissed? Girlfriends? Still best friends as we always had been? Experimental-sort-of-friends? I'd have asked her-if I wasn't so scared of what the answer would be.  Instead I only wondered, failing to come to any sort of conclusion. I warily peeked into Mum's room to find, thankfully, that she wasn't there. She must've been at one of the many workshops that she'd signed up for- she had told me that they were to pass the time while she didn't have a job, but I had a nagging suspicion that she attended them so that she didn't have to put up with me. Her irritation with me still hadn't lightened ;if anything, it had increased, even though I was being extra careful not to do anything that might fuel her anger.

The pencil scuttled across the paper like a lost beetle as I attempted to accurately copy Draco Malfoy's angular face glaring out at me from the computer screen in front of us. "How's yours going?" Dylan pulled a face and held up her attempt, which, although not as bad as mine, wasn't the work of art that I had pictured it to be. I smiled and said, "Well, yours is a lot better than mine, at least. His head looks like a potato." She squinted at it and raised one eyebrow, grinning. "I must say, his head does look more like a vegetable than a human body part. Okay, okay, I take it back! Stop!" The awkwardness we'd both felt in the aftermath of the kiss a few days before melted away as we thumped each other with pillows, our laughter releasing the frustration of trying to get the drawings right. She hadn't yet mentioned the events of the tree and I wasn't planning to either, for fear of the situation becoming even more confusing than it already was.

Three hours later (yes. Three hours. Well, I did already make it clear that we weren't the best of artists, didn't I? Or, at least, I certainly wasn't.), I was sketching the final edge of Harry's scar and Dylan was finishing off the curves of the Slytherin snake emblem. I sighed and held the paper I had been attacking with the pencil at arm's length, studying it in forensic, judgemental detail. Overall, it wasn't as bad as I had expected it to be. But my self-reassurances instantly went to waste as I glanced at Dylan's drawing. "When did you get so artistic?" I demanded, grinning at her and looking from her drawing to the picture on the screen. Back and forth, back and forth. She blushed and smiled. "I've been practicing. So that Miss Garcia doesn't try and get us to come to more art catch-up after school sessions when school starts up again." I nodded sagely, remembering the balmy, turpentine-drenched heat of the art room due to the sealed windows and no air-conditioning.

Miss Garcia, our art teacher of two years, was usually pretty vanilla when it came to punishment, but art catch-up was the exception. So far she had issued fifteen students out of thirty daily after school sessions, including me, Dylan, Freya and Ava, four members of our six-person group at school. The Redpark High hierarchy was pretty simple: the popular students (or, as we liked to call them, the Airheads) ruled at the top, the athletic and scholarly people were next, and we were further down the list, having actual interests aside from the makeup-caked world of the Airheads. Lastly came the outcasts. I used to belong to this tribe in primary school, but thankfully escaped the more vicious high school version by meeting Dylan, Erin, Penny, Freya and Ava on the first day. We called ourselves the AWORs (awesome wallflowers of Redpark) which was fitting for all of us except Ava, who was the loudest and most eccentric person I'd ever met.

I slightly envied her confidence, but she had a more secluded side to her character-her psychosis, which, at the time, was getting worse.

She had kept it hidden from us since the day we met, and we probably wouldn't have ever found out if she hadn't had a psychotic episode at school last term, when her illness had reached an almost incurable stage. After she had told us what happened, she got prescribed medication and now, slowly but surely, she was recovering.

"Sorry I haven't asked earlier, but how is everything? Is the therapy working?" Dylan's voice jolted me back into the present, and my suspicions that friends were (in my case) a whole lot more supportive than parents were instantly confirmed. "The therapy's fine," I said, smiling at her worried face. Why was she so concerned? I hadn't had any thoughts telling me to clean for a long time now. I was fine. "The specialist is strange, though. She doesn't really seem to know what she's doing." But as I saw the worried crease in her eyebrows forming, I hastily added, "I'm sure it'll be fine. I got more medication a few weeks ago and it's working, I'm sure." I looked at her, willing her to believe me. She still didn't look entirely convinced, but didn't say anything.

Just as I opened my mouth to reassure her some more, I heard keys turning in the lock and the words stuck in my throat. She was home. The noise of the door opening was like an air-raid siren, warning me that the explosion was dawning. Dylan glanced at me, and I quickly wiped the worried expression off my face, determined to keep my thoughts hidden. Then feet were thundering up the stairs, and Mum burst into my room, her eyes a storm of mad fury. However, upon noticing that Dylan was with me, a saccharine smile stretched her cheeks and her eyes glazed over slightly, just enough to hide her anger. "Dylan!" she said, shooting a quick glare my way. "How lovely to see you! I'm afraid that Evelyn and I need to have a little chat , so..." She trailed off, looking at me all the while. I stared at her in utmost fury. The fact that she managed to ruin everything within five minutes of arriving made me even more infuriated.

"Well, I'd better be going anyway," said Dylan uncertainly, looking at me in bewilderment at Mum's sudden change of character. "Mum probably wants me back for another lesson or something. See you soon, Eve." She hugged me and walked out, looking a little hurt. I watched her go without a word, the happiness in the room instantly evaporated. Then, as soon as I heard the front door slam, I turned on her.

"What the hell did you do that for?! What is wrong  with you?" She scowled at me, the saccharine of her smile nowhere to be seen. "You see her too much," she snapped, turning away from me. "You said you were straight..." I glared at her.
"I'm not in love with her! And even if I was, it's none of your business!"
"None of my business?" She whispered, her voice now soft and dangerous. "I'd consider it my business, seeing as I'm your mother, Eve. Tell the truth."
"Why should I?" I burst out, seething with rage. "Ever since you've lost your job, you've been treating me like shit and separating me from friends who actually care if the dreams are getting worse or the medication isn't working! You don't, you don't give a damn!"

It came so fast that if I had been watching it happen to someone else, it would've looked as if nothing had happened. My body seemed to register what was happening before my brain did as her palm slammed down on my cheek, leaving it stinging and torn as her nails dragged across my flesh. I looked at her, holding back tears. I didn't want to look weak in front of her while she was like this. Eyes bulging and wild, her hand still raised, she looked like a feral beast, far from the mother that I used to know. But I said nothing. What was there to be said, anyway? I made a decision.

I reached for the scalpel sitting on my bedroom windowsill, my hand shaking, my brain a blur of memories. I tried to convince myself I was doing the right thing. It would be doing something about the pain, right? An eye for an eye, or in my case, pain for pain. Emotions to scars. Taking a deep breath and gritting my teeth, I raised the blade and drew it across my wrist, letting out everything that I'd been bottling up over the last few weeks.
I regretted it instantly. The cut soon opened and bled, the red trails running down my arm like tiny snakes, pain rushing through it like fire. Although the relief that came with it was far greater than what washing my hands gave me, disgust at myself and the throbbing pain that was buried inside the self-inflicted injury overpowered it. The tears I'd been holding back now flowed freely down my cheeks and onto my outstretched arm, and I made another cut next to the first, both overlapping the old scars that, even after all this time, still stood out on my wrist. I need to stop doing this...I need to stop doing this. But I couldn't. Shaking with sobs, I dragged the blade over my skin a third time and closed my eyes, letting the pain envelop me as one thought took it's place in my head.

I lied, Dylan. I'm not fine. I'm sorry.

Hello everyone!

I'm so sorry that I haven't updated in a while-I've been suffering with a very severe case of writer's block, which I hope you can empathise with. Thankyou for all the support on Eve(-1), it's the only story that I've managed to continue, and updates will resume as usual next week. Let me know what you think of this chapter.

FeistyPebble x