The ‘Book of Hate’ was filling up nicely. Ruby poured all her emotions into it. It didn’t quite shut properly any more, the ink had seeped into the pages, making them swell, so that when she touched them she was touching her own fury given physical form.

All the people who had hurt her and betrayed her. Every slight she had received; each sidelong glance that stung and brought tears to her eyes; every shouted insult; every time she had been pushed around, or something of hers stolen, and each time her parents had failed her. It was all contained in the thick notebook, with its spiky title. Bits of paper had been stuck into it, too, making it a scrapbook of pain, in order to accommodate all her words. She needed a new one really, but she was starting to think there would be no point in purchasing one. She’d stick with this to the end.

The last entry glared out at her.

But how? She thought of the Columbine shootings that Harry had told her about and wished she had the courage to do the same thing. The looks on everyone’s faces if she marched into school and blasted them all to hell. She’d leave Jayne for last, so her rival could see the trouble she had caused. Jayne could watch her cronies suffer, and feel the terror of inevitability building inside her as Ruby got closer and closer with her gun, until… BOOM… she fell backwards like a straw doll, arms windmilling like they always did in Hollywood films. Her stupid mouth sagging open in shock and awe, eyes begging as she realised she had made a terrible mistake in underestimating Ruby.

But that wasn’t really an option currently. For starters, school had broken up until next term.

Besides, right now, it was Ruby’s family she was most angry with. They had totally betrayed her.

All Dad cared about was making money and what other people thought. He hadn’t even tried to listen to her. Ha, he’d be mortified if he knew people thought his daughter was a prostitute and were offering to have sex with her. Maybe that’s what she should have led with when she’d tried to open up to him: that his own reputation was in peril. That would have made him sit up and listen.

Well, screw him. She wasn’t going to help him out. Let people write all the vile comments they wanted about her. As long as she had Harry, she could face anything.

Almost anything. When Harry was there, she was strong enough to stay away from social media. Without him, she was weak. Unable to stop her compulsion to know exactly what was happening. She put her ‘Book of Hate’ to one side and got out her phone. Checked ASKfm, Facebook, Twitter. She was called an ugly C-U-Next-Tuesday by someone every single day. Today was no different. The texts had piled up, too.

She knew the words were true. Even Harry’s love didn’t change her own self-loathing.

Ruby opened her bedside cabinet drawer and stared at the hairdressing scissors she kept there for emergencies. She opened them up as wide as they would go. Pulled up her skirt, yanked down her red-and-black striped tights, and pressed the blade to her flesh. The pale skin went paper-white under the pressure. She held it and held it… a jerk of her wrist and the scissors were free. A satisfying line of blood formed, held, spilled.

She rolled her head back. Gave a deep sigh of release. That was better. So much better. But it wasn’t enough, and now she had an idea that would make her feel loads better, and also really infuriate her parents. A win-win situation.

Ruby looked herself square in the eye as she held a safety pin against the outside of her nostril. Her self-loathing burned through her as she counted down.

Three, two, one…

She shoved it through her flesh. The pain made her glare harder, but she didn’t cry out, didn’t shed a tear. Instead, she twisted the pin slightly, grimacing, to make sure it was all the way through and the hole was big enough. Her nostril distorted as she pulled it out with a meaty tug.

Smearing the haematic flow away to find the hole created, she eased in place a large silver stud, shaped like a rivet, that stood proud from her skin. Blood flowed down to the crease of her mouth and she licked at it experimentally. It tasted gross, but she did it again, to prove a point. Then grabbed a handful of loo roll and dabbed at herself until she was no longer bleeding. She stared at the wad of scarlet paper. Wiped it down her T-shirt, leaving a smear on the picture of the upside-down cross that adorned it.

She couldn’t wait for the guests to arrive for Dad’s dinner party.