Status: Active.
99 Ways to Save a Life
Hug: Fiona Wood
I gave my mom a final hug goodbye before I entered Camp Conquer. One last long, lingering hug. Just like the one I’d gotten a week before from her, on that cold November morning.
I reluctantly opened the door to the building before giving a final sad wave to my mother. When I was finally inside, I was asked my name by a brunette desk clerk.
“Fiona Wood,” I said softly, pushing my blond hair, unwashed for a few days, out of my face.
“Good morning, Fiona. Here’s your group list, and your room number,” she said, handing me a crisp white sheet of paper. I took it from her and scurried down the hall, pulling my sleeves farther down my pale arms.
I settled into the chair in the gray room, trying to go unnoticed as I scoped out the room, eying the other teenagers. They looked nice enough, I guess. I took a quick glance at my pale, scarred wrist, reminding me of why I was here.
I held the blade above my skin, breathing heavily in the dark as I poised the sharp edge to slice my skin. I made the first cut, the area turning a flaming shade of pink before the blood began to trickle out. I sighed, shivering in ecstasy as the cuts got deeper, the blood running down my forearm, a light cry escaping from my mouth, a silent tear running down my cheek.
A knock at my door ruined the moment; I grabbed an old rag from the side of by bed and pressed it to my wrist, scampering to answer the door.
“Fiona?” my mother asks, studying my expression. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, be down in a minute.” I quickly close the door and rush to clean up my wrist before dinner.
The brunette, I think her name was Erin, started talking, but I kept reminiscing.
“Fiona, do you know why you’re here?” she asked. I was startled at the sound of my own name.
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“I cut myself,” I confessed, not able to meet anyone’s eyes.
Mom, I need help, the letter said. It continued on, with words like unhappy, depressed, worthless, and miserable. I knew the part that would hit the most was the fact that I admitted I’d cut myself.
I’d written the letter late one night, addressing it to my mother and leaving it by her computer. That night, I cried myself to sleep, waiting for my mother’s response.
The next morning, I awoke to my mother’s arms around me.
“Why, Fiona?” she asked. I could tell she’d been crying, and still was.
“I don’t know Mom; I don’t know,” I whispered, tears flowing freely.
I reluctantly opened the door to the building before giving a final sad wave to my mother. When I was finally inside, I was asked my name by a brunette desk clerk.
“Fiona Wood,” I said softly, pushing my blond hair, unwashed for a few days, out of my face.
“Good morning, Fiona. Here’s your group list, and your room number,” she said, handing me a crisp white sheet of paper. I took it from her and scurried down the hall, pulling my sleeves farther down my pale arms.
I settled into the chair in the gray room, trying to go unnoticed as I scoped out the room, eying the other teenagers. They looked nice enough, I guess. I took a quick glance at my pale, scarred wrist, reminding me of why I was here.
I held the blade above my skin, breathing heavily in the dark as I poised the sharp edge to slice my skin. I made the first cut, the area turning a flaming shade of pink before the blood began to trickle out. I sighed, shivering in ecstasy as the cuts got deeper, the blood running down my forearm, a light cry escaping from my mouth, a silent tear running down my cheek.
A knock at my door ruined the moment; I grabbed an old rag from the side of by bed and pressed it to my wrist, scampering to answer the door.
“Fiona?” my mother asks, studying my expression. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, be down in a minute.” I quickly close the door and rush to clean up my wrist before dinner.
The brunette, I think her name was Erin, started talking, but I kept reminiscing.
“Fiona, do you know why you’re here?” she asked. I was startled at the sound of my own name.
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“I cut myself,” I confessed, not able to meet anyone’s eyes.
Mom, I need help, the letter said. It continued on, with words like unhappy, depressed, worthless, and miserable. I knew the part that would hit the most was the fact that I admitted I’d cut myself.
I’d written the letter late one night, addressing it to my mother and leaving it by her computer. That night, I cried myself to sleep, waiting for my mother’s response.
The next morning, I awoke to my mother’s arms around me.
“Why, Fiona?” she asked. I could tell she’d been crying, and still was.
“I don’t know Mom; I don’t know,” I whispered, tears flowing freely.