Help Me: My Name is Peyton

It was dark. And she felt betrayed. Sitting on the side of her father's girlfriend's house, she sat silently. She could hear the woman's son in his room, eyes glues to the T.V screen, hands stuck on the controller. He wore a headset, talking to other people from around the world, who he called friends. Her cell phone lay beside her, waiting to ring. She called her mother, hoping for the comfort she needed. Tears raced down her face, bringing her thick, black eyeliner with them. She heard her father's laugh, and the clashing of the couples forks against their plates. Had they even cared? Did they even notice she was gone? She didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Taking deep breaths her stomach rumbled, and she was reminded of yet another one of her problems. She ignored her stomach's cry for food, more tears streaming down her face. Her left wrist is where she wore her multi-colored, checkered wristband. Underneath of that wristband were scars. More the she could count. Some were so deep, the healed and left a mark forever.
Some of the scars were fresh and new. Only a day ago had she let herself down, broken her own promise. She pulled her wristband down further, trying to cover the rest of the scars, wishing she had stopped herself. But she couldn't.
She took off her glasses, which were round, but not fully circular. They were designer glasses, the frames black. A purple streak from her hair fell in her face as she wiped away the tears. She watched distant lightning get closer every ten minutes. Soon, she would need to go inside. Thirty minutes had passed since she called her mother. Thinking, and getting more frustrated with herself, she began to cry again. Another thirty minutes, and still no call. The storm was pretty close. After calming down, she snuck back inside, hoping not to be seen. Her plan was a success. No one noticed.

"I guess they really don't care." Peyton thought to herself.

In the living room, by herself, she soaked in an ocean of emotional pain. She couldn't handle it anymore. Once more, she let her emotions control her. Checking to see if the cost was clear, she stepped into the kitchen. Where was everyone? She hadn't heard anyone step out of the house. Usually, they're all right here. In the kitchen. Besides the son. He's usually upstairs. No one was here. This made her, not only more angry, but at ease; knowing she would not have to be as discrete as she thought she would.
Her father's girlfriend was a cook, and she had only the finest tools. While stepping over to the counter that held the knives, the old kitchen floor creaked beneath her. A flash of lightning raced through the sky, lighting up the dark kitchen. Seconds after a roar of thunder crashed in the sky. She crookedly smiled, loving the energy the storm gave to her dark, and extremely emotionally disturbed mood. Now in front of her was the knife holder. The big ones. They had been sharpened only a day before. Slowly and gently, she lifted a long, sharp knife out of its holder.

"Oh, I'm doing it." She smiled, loving the idea. Her heart was now rapidly racing, pounding against her chest. her breathing pattern became irregular.
She studied the knife, moving it swiftly, turning it, admiring it's abilities. Lightning flashed bigger, closer. Still studying the knife, she moved it closer to her. She knew she wanted to do it. But could she?