I was twelve years old on the bus home from a residential, not talking to anyone. Some kids were passing round magazines. One had something on the cover- some kind of zombie, holding a severed eye.

How messed up would it be, I thought, if there was a disease that caused people to impulsively tear their body to shreds.

Four years on, I pull my sleeves oveer my self opened scabs and brush what's left of my hair over bald spots. The disease is real. I've got it.

They call them Bodily Focused Repetitive behaviour. 

My hoodie was too large, a bluish grey, covered in paint with a couple of holes. If there's one thing my mother won't let me do, it's leave the house scruffy.

The new hoodie has the softest inside but the pockets are shallow. My purse was gone as I stepped off the bus. I'll tell you know, bursting into tears and being so hysterical you can't walk properly is embarassing. Right then, I longed for death. I had ruined everything.

When I eventually check my phone there it is- 'You left your purse on your bus seat. Would you like me to give it to you on Monday?'

Nothing to worry about.

At 11pm I'm singing (shouting) along to Cosmic Love, unable to sleep.

The End

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