The first day of freedom was almost as bad and hell. The place I thought I had left. But hell will never leave you. Hell will let you go, but it will never leave you. You can walk away from the place. But memories are forever.

Once I spent two days in hell. But hell is a curious place, because the first day didn't feel like hell, it felt like heaven. As He reached beneath my too big shirt, and wrapped His overheated hand around one breast I felt like I would live forever, be in that moment forever, and it made me even happier to think that maybe I would be in that moment forever. But it ended. And that second day was hell. But I knew it that day. It felt like someone had wrapped their burning hand around my throat, no, my entire body and squeezed, and the second day was hideous. And I felt it, I felt it like I felt the piece of glass He used to cut my thigh with, I felt it like I felt the drugs He'd secretly given me sink in, I could feel my conscience leave me, alone to suffer with His too warm hand. But the moment never came. Marcus walked in at that moment, he beat Him away. He stopped His hand from forcing the glass into my blood stream. Marcus ripped off his T shirt and wrapped it around my bleeding leg, he carried my tired, limp body to his car, and drove me to his mum's house, and begged her to save me, and she did, she saved me, and I lived. But the second day was a known hell. When I woke and stupidly stood, feeling my tired, over worked body collapse on the floor, when I crawled and felt the stitching rip open, and saw blood slowly soak Marcus' mum's floor, and then when Marcus's older brother walked in and lifted me effortlessly back onto the couch, or bed. I don't remember, because it was hell. It was a hell that sucked me back to its bottom, and refused to free me again.

The third day wasn't hell. I was lying on hells doorstep, feeling the pressure of that burning hand, but through a cloth, there was something saving me from that hand, stopped it from stealing me back into its fiery depths.

The first day of freedom felt like the second day of hell. I could feel the hand of hell hold my every limb, threatening to suffocate me, send me to its grave, but it didn't. The first day of freedom felt like it should, terrifying, yet somehow uplifting. I beat the hand of hell. I beat the hand of hell like Marcus beat Him. I walked into an unknown math room, not knowing what these people would think of my body, not filling out my clothes, but now visible, my eyes, a dark thundery grey, but not bloodshot from overdosing. I saw three black kids, which was wrong, my world had one black kid who tried his best not to stand out, not to make a noise, but yet would always stand out, would get beaten nearly as much as me, nearly. This class had three. In one class, and what's more, one black girl was sitting next to a white guy, admittedly not a attractive boy, to lanky to be tall, to light to be dark, and hadn't hit puberty enough to be handsome. But she was sitting next to him, and what was that? 'Shut up, gee, she isn't that skinny, ok, maybe she is, but she doesn't look sick, 'cept how skinny she is. If she wore smaller clothes, or gained like, thirty kilos' I could hear them talk about me, but it wasn't the nasty things like at my old school, it wasn't the snide remarks about how I'd gotten fat over the holidays, even though I'd actually dropped two shirt sizes.

I sat down behind a blonde guy and a guy with dark hair covered by a beanie that had seen too much weather. They both turned, saw something in me that said fragile, and the blonde looked at my pencil case and said "hey Rachel, new here?" even though that wasn't my name. that was the name of someone who wanted me to leave remembering them, and wrote it where I didn't want it. "Uh, my name is Kat, Kathryn I mean, and yeah, I'm new"

"Oh, haha, I'm josh, this is Daniel"
"yo" the one which must be Daniel cut in.
"and I hope your first day isn't too daunting, by the way, you're sitting in our usual seats. Its fine, we don't mind, but yeah, haha" this kid just laughed, not at me, not at anything, but he smiled and laughed. How long had It been since I'd done that? It had to have been, what three months. God, I missed smiling, and mum could tell, she'd try, but all I'd do is say 'you're so lame mum' and turn away.

At lunch I went and hung out with some people I knew from my street, and I could tell I didn't fit in. I wasn't normal for them; I looked out of place in a world of makeup and same jacket chicks. The guys with them talked to me, not to my too small breasts, but to my eyes, it was an unusual this for me, I was close to saying 'hey, you should be looking here, just because they're tiny doesn't mean they aren't worth looking at' at my chest, correcting their oddly nice behavior.

My hell would never leave me. I could tell by the stares the girls would give me, telling me what a paper cut out I was

AN: i am a paper ballerina. you will see in later chapters. if you review, i will highly appreciate, even if you hate it