Tears stain my cheeks and fall into my mattress as I lay in fetal position in bed, covered just by a thin grey blanket. I am hugging my middle and sobbing my lungs out. My parents can never know.That is why I cry at night.

My teddy bear sits in the desk chair; all patched up, smiling at me. I stare at its newest addition. A thick line of black stitches that keep the end of its arm attached to the rest of it. Careful not to make a single noise, I get up and sowly open the drawer on my bedside table. Inside is the tin lunchbox where I keep my sewing supplies, always there when I need them. I open the small cardboard box where I keep my needles and pick my favorite, a middle sized one that was once silver but has worn out over the years and become a weird shade of bronze. I pick a reel of black thread at random and put the thread through the eye of the needle in the first try. When my thread is ready, I take the teddy bear carefully, rock it in my arms a bit and decide that I should work on its eyes, they're starting to dangle a bit from their old blue threads. I grab the small scissors from the drawer; suddenly wishing they were sharp enough and large enough to cut away my face, and make a cut in the blue thread of one of the eyes. I yank the eye away, making the thread slither out of place and my sobs go out of control. When the thread is entirely out, in its place is a bit of stuffing sticking out of a little gap. I cram the white stuffing back inside violently and start sewing back the cloth of the teddy bear loosely, then I pull the string across the seam until the gap is closed and use the same string to sew the button eye back on tightly. When I'm done with both eyes, I stare at the teddy bear for another while and think, for the millionth time, that no matter what I do to fix its flaws, it will never be as perfect as I want it to be. Just like me.

I hold the teddy bear tightly to my chest and try to control my crying, afraid it will make too much noise and wake up my sister, who is sleeping in the room next to mine.I just need to leave this place so that everyone will be released from the huge weight I am on anyone's shoulders.

I empty my school backpack, silently wishing my classmates and teacher well, then I take my teddy bear and my blanket and stuff them into it. Looking around my room, I only take my tin lunchbox, not forgetting to return the needle, thread and scissors. I don't need anything else.I put on an old patchwork jacket over my black jeans and t-shirt and I slip on a pair of combat boots with half-smashed heels. I write a letter.

Father, Mother: I'm sorry for everything.Brother, Sister: See you again sometime.

I grab my bag and my black flip phone and silently exit my room, walk through the hall and out of the house.

As soon as I open the door, the chilled air hits my face and I take a huge breath in, when I breath out, the pressure that has been bothering me the last seventeen years of my life is still there. My knees tremble as I just stand there in the porch in the middle of the night. I start walking, still hugging myself, still abhorring myself. Hoping that My parents and siblings will be relieved to find that I'm gone in the morning.

I start walking, each breath enters my body as a shudder and leaves it as a white cloud that goes up and dissipates in the cold night air. I mindlessly take my left hand up to my mouth and start sucking and chewing on my thumb. I think of every time I've ever tried to fix my life, to fix myself. Ithink of the endless nights sitting in my desk chair, stabbing the teddy bear with needles and filling it up with foreign threads and stuffings.I think of every broken needle, of every pair of dull sicssors, of every razor blade and every scar in the teddy bear. Scars that mimic my own. I dig my teeth in the flesh of my finger until I taste blood. I think of all the times I wished I could find a needle long enough and strong enough to pierce my heart to the core.
I hate this life and I hated that life and I hated myself for putting up a front I knew to be completely fake. At school and at home I was just a despicable basic bitch with lots of minion friends. I was the queen bee, the fairest of them all. I remember thinking everyday "Maybe clothes are supposed to feel like costumes, after all." Makeup felt more like a thick mask to cover the dark circles under my eyes and the bite scars on my lower lip. Every single pin, band and bow I put on my hair was just an addition to the weight I carried every day.

After walking for a while, I find myself completely lost. I enter a dimly lit alley and my footsteps echoe between the narrow walls. Is smells of old moist, dirt, mold and abandonment."The perfect place for me" I think to myself.My combat boots splash over a small puddle that looks like it has been there for months. A shudder goes down my spine as I discover a cardboard box next to a dry spot and decide to sit down for a while. I settle down and take the blanket out of my backpack to drape it aroud me. I let out a long sigh and close my eyes. When I open them again, The sun is in the sky and it hurts my eyes. The alley is still deserted and I notice a small red poster in the wall before me that reads Mark Anderson, P.D. and a phone number with a LA area code. I don't get it.

Suddenly a beam of light flashes fom the opening in my backpack. I reach in and pull my phone out.
I: Where are you? I don't have any time for your shit today. I'm done with your little temper tantrums.
"Oh, you're done?"
The phone vibrates in my hand to show a new message from my mother.
I: Call me back as soon as you read this. You're in serious trouble, missy.
One more text arrives, this time from my sister.
III: Erin. Come back home, please. Mom is pissed.
I: You're a coward. Running away from your problems like that.
"AH! SHUT UP!" standing up, I toss my phone to the floor and smash it with the heel of my boot. I sit back down, brething heavily and decide what I sholud do.
I pull the tin lunchbox out of the backpack and open it. I extract the biggest pair of sicssors I own, grab a fistful of my long blond hair and I cut it off without a second thought. The golden locks fall to the floor and I feel empowered, I continue to cut my own hair until all that is left is a short, messy mane that I run my fingers through, satisfied.I put the scissors back inide the lunchbox and, for a second, I hope I don't look too bad."As if someone would care anyway..."
For the first time in three years, I let my emotions drain out of my system. I become a little girl crying in a street corner, covered by a grey blanket and hugging a teddy bear that has been fixed one too many times. The next moment I'm a mad woman sitting in an alley sobbing violently, screaming her lungs out, missing her child, filled with grief and hatred.

I think of every time I watched Mean Girls with my friends and laughed at "Don' t have sex, because you will get pregnant, and die." I never thought how literal that could get. When you're young and innocent and a brat, if someone tells you they love you, chances are you're gonna believe them. And you will get pregnant. And die. Or maybe do what I did, which is way, way worse.

I think of blood and I think of white and that somehow becomes the most disturbing memory of all. I toss the teddy bear and it somehow lands perfectly seated inside the cardboard box. I yank the scissors back out and I start stabbing at the air until I hit flesh. I don't realize it's my own until I see the blood dripping from my leg. I can't help but think that I'm stabbing her, a scalpel in my hand instead of scissors, a little newborn instead of my own leg. I don't feel anything, so I keep stabbing until the corners of my vision turn black and all I see is a red and pink blur. I drop my hand and let go of the scissors. Slowly drifting out of consciousness and hoping that I will never wake up again.