His thigh didn’t hurt badly, the first time, nor did his forearm: they were surprisingly easy, and hiding them easier still. The sting of his sweat was worse.

Then the creative writing club’s cheap annual came out, and Liam understood that it was accurate, if awful. Everybody else was already doing this–cutting, binding, hiding. It’s been done.

So he’s thought of something new, finally, and this time it’s different. It hurts like fuck. Liam’s toes scrabble, and he chokes back a sob, holding desperately to his vicious satisfaction.

Another toothpick, another fingernail. Original, he thinks. Nobody’s ever done this before.