Their voices hush as I walk in the room, their eyes silent, looking at me with cold curiousity. Then the whispers begin, a swirling ocean of little pieces of sound caught mid word.
"Rachael..."
"suicide..."
"cutter..."
Accusation and mockery was written in their eyes as they watched me as a cat would watch its prey. Quietly I pulled back a chair from its table, the legs scraping against the floor. I duck my head, trying to hide from their stares, their accusations, their rumors.
They don't know my story. They don't know anything but my name.
I pull my sleeves over the deep, deep wounds from last week, wounds that will never heal, wounds meant to kill.
They don't know.