Pinkie screamed but no one was there to listen to her. She was left alone at home, alone with her thoughts once again and a subsequent tear-stricken face. Nothing was going right at all. She lost cake baking competitions she was sure to win and she lost chances to visit bakeries, and she just wanted to wallow in sadness and stay curled in a ball for being such a failure. But she couldn't. There were always more expectations, more demands, and more mountains to climb or to conquer.

But she couldn't, or at least believed she couldn't. Every small task was an impossibility; every completed small task was an achievement. Could she stay in this moment, breaking down and crying for eternity? Her thoughts were jumbled and she couldn't think straight and that's exactly how she would prefer to stay.

She was starting to eat again. She still felt like puking whenever she put anything into her mouth but she recognised the importance and necessity of it. Hell, she almost died a couple of times. She couldn't let that continue. It would hurt her friends too much.

It's been 25 days since she last cut, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered were the tears in her eyes and the knife at the corner of her eye that would get rid of the tears. She walked to the mirror, and in her eyes a disgusting figure appeared.

A lifeless and dead carcass embodied by the undead stared back at her. She was thin and imperfect, painfully so. Her arms were scar-less and empty now and there were no remnants of the pain or sadness that inspired the lines on those arms. She couldn't take it and took the knife and – remembering how everyone was sure to know she was cutting when she wore her jacket – cut her thigh.

She stopped crying. The emotional pain was forgotten and far away, and it was replaced by a physical pain, which was one so much easier to deal with. She stared at the lines slowly growing red and the blood that started to seep out in little bubbles.

Back to Day Zero.