Nancy stared out of her bedroom window, a single finger pressed against the cold glass drawing shapes. It was raining outside, dark clouds hanging in the sky. Not really the weather to be going out in. The pale flesh of her arm showed scars old and new. Deep white lines engraved on her skin. Nancy held a small metal nail, dragging it deep into the inside of her forearm, pain in her eyes as the small sharp point pierced her skin. Bright red blood dripped from the new cuts, dribbling down her arm. Nancy had been self-harming for a few years now, and she couldn’t explain to anyone why she did it. She just did. Maybe she was unhappy with her life, maybe it was a cry for help. She didn’t know anymore. She paused, could hear someone coming up the stairs. She yanked her jumper down over her arms and threw the nail under the bed. Nobody could see this, nobody would understand. She was good at hiding things, very good indeed. The bedroom door creaked open and her uncle stood there, just looking at her. He was a shady one, that was for sure. Her Uncle John had lived with her family since she could remember, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

‘What do you want? Get out of my room!’ John was a mess, as ever, he could have done with a good scrub. His shoulder-length hair was greasy, his skin had a greyish sheen.

‘No need for the attitude, gobshite. Your mam asked me to check you were OK. Just doing her a favour really. I couldn’t give a shit if you was alive or dead, to tell the truth.’

Nancy could give as good as she got. ‘Well I am alright so close the door and leave me alone. Go on, fuck off instead of standing there gawping.’

When Nancy was in a mood like this she had a foul mouth on her. But in truth, she was all over the place. Was it any wonder that she’d just walk out of the house and go on the missing list for days? She’d never been able to really explain why. She said it was just the way she was. She’d been to see enough specialists about her mental health problems, but none of them would put a label on her. Maybe she was bipolar, ADHD? Consultants and counsellors had suggested all sorts, but would giving the way she felt a name actually help? Or maybe one day they’d go with her suggestion: she was like she was, just because her life was shit.