Help Me: My Name is Peyton

She could. In fact, she would. Lifting her right arm, the clean one, she pressed the knife to her arm, near the inside of her elbow. Too close to her wrist, and people might see. Slowly, she glided it vertically across her flesh. She took in a sharp breath, moaning at the sting. Another crash of lightning, and the lights went out. The cut was deep. She put the knife down, and squeezed the skin around where she cut. the pain was nice to her. She loved it. She never really got angry at anyone else for her emotional issues, so she got mad at herself. Took everything out on her arms.
When the sting was gone, she threw the knife in the sink and rinsed it off. Blood was still oozing out of the cut. It ran down her arm in rigid streaks of red. After she cleaned the cut, and bandaged it, she put on her favorite hoodie. It was black, and soft. Very light. She loved to wear it, feel it, on a night like this. Entering back into the living room, she laid on the plush leather couch, waiting for the arrival of her father.
Oh, and those other people, too.