The knife glided across her pale wrist, the blood dripping. She exhaled slowly, preparing herself for another cut.

It hurt. But she was depressed, her soul slowly fading into nothing. She knew no one could save her.

The hallucinations came every night. She saw her father, mocking her, laughing at her.

Raven refused to tell anyone. Especially her leader. He would send her away, or worse, keep her in the infirmary until she got "better".

She was alone in this world. The only thing that satisfied her was her own red blood falling from her wrist to her blue carpet.

She continued to make slits on her skin, not done until there were 5 on each arm.

Her leotard would hide the area. She had learned that she could not heal these self inflicted wounds, yet she continued.

She was sick, and she hated herself. Raven took one look in her mirror, but quickly turned away.

Yes, she was ashamed. Ashamed of the blood, the cuts, everything. But she couldn't help it.

She was made like this. Raven didn't bother to bandage the cuts, it was too much effort. So she just let the red liquid slide down her wrists, to her fingers, and onto the floor.