Four You bite your finger. You're trying to avoid the temptation of scratching yourself with nails you haven't trimmed for a while. You pretend you have an itch just so you can have an excuse to scratch yourself, to hurt yourself, to experience the punishment you put on yourself for being such a failure. You bite your other finger as you stare into your bruised arm. So many bruises. One for each mistake. You count them to take your mind off of the temptation. One, two, three, four--four bruises equals four mistakes. Four stupid failures. Oh, you hate yourself, alright. You repeatedly call yourself a weakling, a disgrace, a misfortune to your parents. Your parents. No, they don't know about the four bruises. You hide them so well. You fake a smile so often in a day that you wear the smile almost all the time. But right now, you're all alone. You're in your bedroom. The door is closed, locked. Nobody's home. You divert your thoughts back to your arm. You have scratched it, punched it, bit it, and everything possible to punish yourself. All but one thing. You could never muster up the courage to cut yourself. No, no cutting. That is what you say. It is too messy, too bloody. No, mom and dad would find out early if you did. You weren't satisfied with seeing your arm bleed. You'd rather pick the bruises than stitches. Suffer. Suffer hard, that is what you want. Torture yourself with words. But then you hear the front door opening. It's your mom. You can tell by the sound of her footsteps. She calls your name. You quickly hide the bruises, then you release your fingers from your mouth. The teeth marks on them are visibly seen. You clench your hands instead to avoid letting your mom see them. You quickly put on your jacket, covering those four bruises. You dry your eyes. Then you put on the smile. You unlock the door and you re-enter your world of fake smiles as you greet your mother. She doesn't know, nobody knows of the four marks of shame underneath that jacket. Nobody knows of the fake smile. That fake smile.