I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling like i do every night. It's midnight, but, as usual, no one sleeps. An argument muffled by the denseness of the walls can be heard in the room three doors down from mine.

The sickening stench of weed and meth leaks out of every crevice, while heavy metal blares in the room of my oldest brother across the hall.

A six year old paces circles in her room combing the hair of a body less Barbie doll.

And me...well let's just say I find my comfort in a different way.

I slowly sat up in my bed, careful not to make any noise, though I don't see why since the house is already full of it. I listen to the soft creaks and groans of the wooden floor boards as I walk across the room to a metal door handle. It's golden, glossy paint, a mockery of what truly lies underneath. It's rusting metal and shoddy workmanship all hiding under a flawless cover of golden lies.

I roll my eyes as I push it down, triggering for the path to my destination to be revealed. I take a step. Smooth, white and black tile greet my bare feet as I enter my bathroom. My head turns slightly as the click of the door shutting is heard and I am left, once again, alone with my reflection being my only company, but not for long.

I gently graze my fingers over the side of the framed image of myself until they reach a familar, almost friendly, object. I smirk a bit as the tips of my fingers gently pull it out of its hiding place revealing a smooth, crisp piece of glass.

I shudder in its presence as I trace the tip of my index finger over its smooth edges, going around the entire piece until I have fully examined the triangular shaped weapon.

I grin as I admire the slim, sleek smoothness of its top and bottom, and grimace at the thought of it being used for anything other than my intended purpose for it.

I plop down on the cold, unforgiving floor and roll up the sleeve of my grey sweater. My pale, peach arm greets me with its beautifully horrendous array of agitated scars and cuts, some very old while others had been made fresh this morning by your 's truly.

I smirked as I held the glass firmly in my right hand and place the sharpest edge onto my paper thin skin, then delicately slide the edge over my skin with the grace and professionalism of a painter and his brush strokes.

I began to paint a picture of my own. Every slice, a new stroke to the work of art that is destroying my life. The beads of crimson rolling off my wrist, like the dew off the petal of a fresh wild daisy.

The straight cuts decorating the plain walls of peach, bringing life to what was once dull and colorless.

The small droplets of red, splattering onto the black and white tile floor, like drops of acid in a pool of water.

I continue my strokes. Counting and cutting until my heart and arm can feel no more pain.

I run my tongue over the freshly made wounds and savor the metallic taste that is my blood.

I stand up slowly, a little dizzy from the exertion, and lean against the sink as I wash away all evidence that I was here.

I watch as the clear, pure water gets trained with my rotten flesh, and the once white sink gets stained with a light ring of my tainted essence.

I rinse of the shard and place it back in its hiding place to be used tomorrow, or later when I need it, then wrap up my wrist with the sandpaper that we are forced to call toilet paper, then return back to my forlorn position on my bed. The fighting still going on down the hall, the stench still overwhelming the room across from mine, everyone still doing what they usually do.

This the routine of the average family that is us. Simply nothing more.