Justin's POV “Justin?” my mother yells, as I rush past her and up the stairs as fast as my legs will go. Reaching my bedroom, I open the door and shut it quickly. I lean back against the door breathing heavily. I feel the tears begin to fall and force myself to swallow the lump in my throat. Sliding down the door, I pull my knees to my chest and look across the room into the mirror. I look at my reflection, at the mess I am and I’m angered by myself. I’m such a pathetic fag, I deserve everything I get. Resisting the urge to smash the mirror into a million pieces, I get up from my position on the floor and walk over to my wardrobe, stripping off my clothes as I go. Marks cover my body all different kinds cuts, scratches, bruises. Pulling out a pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt from my wardrobe, I slip them on and run my hands through my hair. Nobody knows about the marks that cover my body and I’m not going to share the information with anyone. No, it’s not child abuse. I sometimes wish it was, there would be an explanation that people could understand. How do you explain to someone that the marks that cover you, were done by your own hand. That every time you hurt yourself you feel safe because you have control over what you’re doing, and that when you cause yourself pain on the outside it makes you forget about the pain on the inside. Nobody would understand, they’d have me carted off to the loony bin before even trying to. How do you tell people that you’re scared of dying, but are more terrified of living. That you are trapped and it doesn’t matter how many times you runaway, or try to hide, they are always there. You’re afraid of shutting your eyes just for a second, because you know that the images of you tormenters will be there, waiting in the darkness. “Justin?” my mother shouts up the stairs. “It’s time for dinner.” No, they wouldn’t understand. So, you do what you always do. You put a smile on your face and act as if your insides are not trying to work their way out of your throat. You say that you’re fine and that everything is okay, because if they ever found out you know you’d not be able to stay here, you’d have to leave. Leave your home, your safe place. You would not be able to handle the looks in their eyes, the disappointment and knowing that you were the one who caused it. “JUSTIN!” “I’m coming,” I yell, pulling the sleeves of my t-shirt over my hands. Checking myself in the mirror, I wipe a few stray tears from my face. Pausing at my door, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. In the back of my mind I’m always wondering how long I can keep the act going before I finally crack.