Ok, so this is kinda long. And rough. Something's wrong with it, but I can't figure out what it is. I could also see where it might er, bother some people. But if you read it, give me some advice because this thing is driving me bonkers. Oh, and the endings weak. I really need help with this. Before I go crazy from smashing my head on the keyboard. 
"Sick"
I was sitting in a circle of rose bushes, clutching my journal with sweaty hands. It was late September, and the weather was warm and sticky. I glanced at Joe, who sat behind me. He understood my need for bringing my journal. The other counselors wouldn’t have let me take it, but Joe just got me. Turning forward, I frowned and bit at a hangnail on my thumb. I ripped it off with my teeth, and tasted the metallic blood. I grimaced at the wound, and wiped the blood on my shorts. I fidgeted with my journal, first opening it, my pen poised in the air, and then turning it over, and finally leafing through it before laying it on the dirt beneath the rose bushes.
I glanced back again at Joe. He was in deep conversation with a new arrival, L. Her dark head was bowed; I wondered if I’d seen her actually look at anyone in the two months she’d been my peer. Not that I was doing much better than her. I still hid sharps in my room, buried in corners between my nightstand and bed, which were bolted to the floor. I wondered how many meals she skipped that week, and my heart hurt for her. She was so beautiful. I wondered what she’d look like if she nourished her body, what her olive skin would look like if it weren’t pale and starved.
I drew hearts in the dirt beneath the bushes, thinking. I was always thinking those days. I wasn’t numb anymore, and the pain was unbearable. Thinking distracted me from the pangs I wasn’t used to feeling. I would rather have used a razor to distract myself, but I wanted to prove myself to Joe, to my parents and to L. that I could do it; that I could live without bleeding arms.
I rubbed at the wound in my arm absentmindedly. It still hurt; it’d never really healed. I had gashed my arm open one night in a cutting high, determined to die, almost seven months before. It was red and angry, and often in pain. I had not really taken care of it, and I wondered how I didn’t die from it. I tried to shut the image of the gore in my mind, how I saw the bare muscle quiver, shivering naked in the air, as if it were crying that night. How the fat in my arms dripped, melting into my blood. How I panicked, trying to tie something on my arm so the bleeding would stop, holding it above my head, but too scared to wake my mother in my sudden realization that I was too young to die. I was high with the rush of hurting myself, and was anything but clear-headed.
I sensed someone coming. A little girl, no more than three, stood over my shoulder, watching me draw the hearts in the dirt with my right hand, and rubbing at the wound with my left. “Whatcha doin’?” She asked. I smiled at her accent.
“Nuthin’” She sat next to me, and I instinctively shuddered. I hated myself, and was worried I’d somehow poison her mind if she came any closer. I hated myself more. I couldn’t just blow her off. “Well, I’m drawing hearts…” she looked up at me. Her small face was so close to mine. I could feel her warm breath on my face and her brown eyes squinted in the sun. I glanced at Joe again. He was watching me. “Um. Sorry. Wanna learn how, kiddo?” She nodded, and I handed her a twig. I didn’t want her fingers getting dirty like mine. I drew a curve and then another. “See? Easy.” She mimicked my movements with her twig and I smiled at the lopsided shapes. Her pretty Scandinavian face was furrowed in deep thought. She took drying hearts seriously. She looked up; her eyes level with my scar.
“What happened?” Those brown eyes were staring deep into my own blue ones, and I was at a loss for words.
“I got an owey…” I stuttered, and turned my face away from her in shame. I hate you, I thought to myself. “Wanna draw more hearts?”
She was looking up into my eyes again, and my heart ached. She lifted her twig and before I could react, was holding my hand with one of her own, and rubbing my scar with her twig in the other. It hurt. I tried not to squirm away. The first layer of skin was very delicate, and she had scratched the surface.
“Make da owey go away.” Big brown eyes were intent on my face, and I blinked back tears. I was afraid of poisoning her, and she was concerned about a scar that’d never healed.
“Let’s just draw more hearts, kid.” She nodded, watching my scar closely. It was redder than ever, but she seemed satisfied that she’d somehow healed me.
“Anna!” The little girl looked up.
“Uh-oh! Mommy!” She skipped off. “Bye!” She waved her little hand at me.
“Bye, kid.” I stared at my scar and rubbed it gently. It stung, and I felt the tiny scratches from her twig. Whatever. I drew another heart. It needs something, I thought. I drew two pairs of initials—my own and someone else’s -- in it and smiled weakly. It seemed inappropriate for the occasion, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to keep busy so I wouldn’t have to face Joe. I felt a tear roll off my cheek and splash onto the initials. Thank god my hair had grown out so Joe and L couldn’t see.
“Hey!” A little voice called. I looked up, startled. I hadn’t expected her to come back. She was holding the bar of the stroller her mother was pushing.
“Hey,” I called back. I waved a little, and dropped my hand, turning my face to the hearts we’d drawn together. I was afraid of what her mother must think of me with my bright scars lining my arms and hair covering my face.
“For you!” She threw something, a small brown object, and I threw up my hand to catch it. It was piece of thick bark. “To make your oweys go away!” She skipped off with her mother. I turned the bark over in my hand. Such a simple gift…
“Hey, Joe!” I got up, abandoning the hearts and the roses.
"Sick"
I was sitting in a circle of rose bushes, clutching my journal with sweaty hands. It was late September, and the weather was warm and sticky. I glanced at Joe, who sat behind me. He understood my need for bringing my journal. The other counselors wouldn’t have let me take it, but Joe just got me. Turning forward, I frowned and bit at a hangnail on my thumb. I ripped it off with my teeth, and tasted the metallic blood. I grimaced at the wound, and wiped the blood on my shorts. I fidgeted with my journal, first opening it, my pen poised in the air, and then turning it over, and finally leafing through it before laying it on the dirt beneath the rose bushes.
I glanced back again at Joe. He was in deep conversation with a new arrival, L. Her dark head was bowed; I wondered if I’d seen her actually look at anyone in the two months she’d been my peer. Not that I was doing much better than her. I still hid sharps in my room, buried in corners between my nightstand and bed, which were bolted to the floor. I wondered how many meals she skipped that week, and my heart hurt for her. She was so beautiful. I wondered what she’d look like if she nourished her body, what her olive skin would look like if it weren’t pale and starved.
I drew hearts in the dirt beneath the bushes, thinking. I was always thinking those days. I wasn’t numb anymore, and the pain was unbearable. Thinking distracted me from the pangs I wasn’t used to feeling. I would rather have used a razor to distract myself, but I wanted to prove myself to Joe, to my parents and to L. that I could do it; that I could live without bleeding arms.
I rubbed at the wound in my arm absentmindedly. It still hurt; it’d never really healed. I had gashed my arm open one night in a cutting high, determined to die, almost seven months before. It was red and angry, and often in pain. I had not really taken care of it, and I wondered how I didn’t die from it. I tried to shut the image of the gore in my mind, how I saw the bare muscle quiver, shivering naked in the air, as if it were crying that night. How the fat in my arms dripped, melting into my blood. How I panicked, trying to tie something on my arm so the bleeding would stop, holding it above my head, but too scared to wake my mother in my sudden realization that I was too young to die. I was high with the rush of hurting myself, and was anything but clear-headed.
I sensed someone coming. A little girl, no more than three, stood over my shoulder, watching me draw the hearts in the dirt with my right hand, and rubbing at the wound with my left. “Whatcha doin’?” She asked. I smiled at her accent.
“Nuthin’” She sat next to me, and I instinctively shuddered. I hated myself, and was worried I’d somehow poison her mind if she came any closer. I hated myself more. I couldn’t just blow her off. “Well, I’m drawing hearts…” she looked up at me. Her small face was so close to mine. I could feel her warm breath on my face and her brown eyes squinted in the sun. I glanced at Joe again. He was watching me. “Um. Sorry. Wanna learn how, kiddo?” She nodded, and I handed her a twig. I didn’t want her fingers getting dirty like mine. I drew a curve and then another. “See? Easy.” She mimicked my movements with her twig and I smiled at the lopsided shapes. Her pretty Scandinavian face was furrowed in deep thought. She took drying hearts seriously. She looked up; her eyes level with my scar.
“What happened?” Those brown eyes were staring deep into my own blue ones, and I was at a loss for words.
“I got an owey…” I stuttered, and turned my face away from her in shame. I hate you, I thought to myself. “Wanna draw more hearts?”
She was looking up into my eyes again, and my heart ached. She lifted her twig and before I could react, was holding my hand with one of her own, and rubbing my scar with her twig in the other. It hurt. I tried not to squirm away. The first layer of skin was very delicate, and she had scratched the surface.
“Make da owey go away.” Big brown eyes were intent on my face, and I blinked back tears. I was afraid of poisoning her, and she was concerned about a scar that’d never healed.
“Let’s just draw more hearts, kid.” She nodded, watching my scar closely. It was redder than ever, but she seemed satisfied that she’d somehow healed me.
“Anna!” The little girl looked up.
“Uh-oh! Mommy!” She skipped off. “Bye!” She waved her little hand at me.
“Bye, kid.” I stared at my scar and rubbed it gently. It stung, and I felt the tiny scratches from her twig. Whatever. I drew another heart. It needs something, I thought. I drew two pairs of initials—my own and someone else’s -- in it and smiled weakly. It seemed inappropriate for the occasion, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to keep busy so I wouldn’t have to face Joe. I felt a tear roll off my cheek and splash onto the initials. Thank god my hair had grown out so Joe and L couldn’t see.
“Hey!” A little voice called. I looked up, startled. I hadn’t expected her to come back. She was holding the bar of the stroller her mother was pushing.
“Hey,” I called back. I waved a little, and dropped my hand, turning my face to the hearts we’d drawn together. I was afraid of what her mother must think of me with my bright scars lining my arms and hair covering my face.
“For you!” She threw something, a small brown object, and I threw up my hand to catch it. It was piece of thick bark. “To make your oweys go away!” She skipped off with her mother. I turned the bark over in my hand. Such a simple gift…
“Hey, Joe!” I got up, abandoning the hearts and the roses.