Hiya! Kristi here, and I am so excited to be a part of my third Wattpad Block Party! This time, I am giving you all a sneak peak at my latest work in progress, IT ENDED ONLINE, which will begin on Wattpad in early September! You are getting a look at the first chapter before anyone else!

The story is a young adult drama, that I call a Follow Me Back meets Textrovert meets 13 Reasons Why.

I am so excited to share this first chapter with you, and can't wait for the story to begin officially in September!

Major thanks to Kelly Anne for hosting yet another amazing Block Party, and to all of you for reading these posts and supporting Wattpad writers!

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HOW IT CAME TO THIS – Chapter One

October 3

This is so stupid.

I stare at the screen with an annoyed expression, my fingers placed over the keys as if the words will simply spill from them without my conscious thought. It would be so much easier if they would, because I have no idea what she wants me to say.

I glance to the papers beside me, finding the first few bullets at the top of the page. Since this is my first entry, she wants me to start off with the 'easy stuff'. I snort again, just like I did in her office when she gave me this sheet and the instructions for the online diary she now expects me to keep. New age therapy, she called it. In my mind, it is just a way for me to spill my thoughts and sorrows to a computer screen rather than her, but she still gets paid for it.

My mom said I should be glad I can do this part of my therapy online rather than the 'old fashioned' way of writing in a typical diary. I knew she meant it more as a jab than a supportive remark; since I spend all day on the computer, hidden away in my room, it seems logical that my therapy transcend into the online realm as well. To me, though, spilling my guts to anything or anyone isn't exactly something I am too eager to do.

I've been in therapy for nearly two months, and so far it has been pointless. Twice a week, my mom drives me to the fancy office in downtown LA to meet with Dr. Trepner. Apparently she was recommended to my mom by one of the people she works with. Apparently her daughter went through the same things I am. I doubt that, but I didn't fight back too hard when mom suggested I try therapy. I mean, it isn't like it used to be, right? That only crazy people or serial killers get therapy? Everyone goes now; celebrities, politicians. It's the cool thing. Half the kids in my school are in therapy for one thing or another. Addiction, family drama. Whatever.

Of course, all those kids are the reason I am now joining their ranks on the crazy couch.

I actually enjoy my therapy, even if I don't feel it's getting me anywhere. The drive to downtown from our little house in Glendale is nice. Mom doesn't say much, figuring I am nervous about 'baring my soul' when in reality I am singing One Direction songs in my head as I stare out the window. My time with Dr. Trepner isn't bad, either. She's nice, I suppose, in a quiet, shrink kind of way. She records our sessions on an old tape recorder, rather than writing as I talk. She says it makes her more open to receive my thoughts, rather than closed off with her eyes away from me. I guess I get the point, but figure if she's just going to type the transcripts out later, why make twice the work? It's not like I say much.

I like her because she doesn't push me to talk about everything that brought me to her right off the bat, like I expected. I guess I thought she would jump right in, drilling me on my hell, my anxiety, and all my transgressions, but so far we just talk about my family and things I like. Nothing too deep or scary. Although I have seen her eyes flicker to the scars on my wrists more than once, and I know she wants me to tell her everything that brought me to the point of inflicting them on myself.

Maybe that is why she gave me this assignment. Maybe she figures talking to an anonymous screen will get me to open up, be more honest than I am with her, since in these last two months, all we've talked about was surface crap: my family, how my dad left when I was three, how my mom works all the time to support me, and the only other family I have close is my grandparents, my friends who are virtually non-existent part from Sherry and Erin. They are the only two who have stuck by me since it all started, even if it did make their social lives a little harder for the association with me. School; which I usually just say is 'fine'.

Of course, we both know that is a huge lie.

Huffing at myself, I rein in my wayward thoughts and look back to the computer screen. I have multiple windows open, like I always do. Twitter, email, messenger and the online diary that Dr. Trepner promised me was completely secure. I gave her a death glare when she suggested I put my thoughts online. Was she trying to push me over the edge again, or was this some twisted type of reverse psychology therapy crap? Since this torment started online, to then divulge my inner most pain to the same medium was a sickening thought. What if someone found it? What if everything I said, everything I thought, was only used against me by the same assholes that spent their every waking moment searching out ways to fuck with me? Catching my look, I saw her cheeks blaze as she realized her error, before quickly stammering that the site is completely safe, and many of her patients use it. No one will ever know what I write, unless I want them to.

I have therapy again on Monday, and I know Dr. Trepner will be asking what I have been writing. She promised me I didn't have to show her my diary, unless I wanted to. A tactic, I am sure, to gain my trust in the belief that one day I actually will show her. Again, doubtful, but either way I should at least try. My mom is paying a butt-load for this therapy, promising me it will help. The least I can do is try.

Because I do want help. I need help.

Reading over the first few points on the instruction page, I try to formulate answers in my head to these simple questions. They are all very basic, non-threatening type questions. This should be an easy start, but I still feel my heart rate increasing as I come to some of the more triggering questions, such as why I am starting therapy.

Lifting my fingers and laying them gently back down onto the keys, I start to type my random thoughts before I procrastinate any further.

October 3

Dr. Trepner said to be completely honest in this, so I am going to be. If anyone does hack in to this and you don't like what you read, then maybe you shouldn't have earned your place in what I am about to say.

My name is Alex Carpenter. I am a junior at Glendale High School in Glendale, California. I am 5'6", have brown hair and green eyes. I have freckles on my cheeks like my mother, and am horrible at any kind of athletics, but am slim I guess. I don't think I am particularly pretty. I am average in every way.

My family consists of my mom, and my grandparents. My dad is a dick who took off when I was three. His name was Mike. I don't even remember what he looks like because my mom burned all the pictures she had of him. I did the same when I turned eight to the few she hadn't destroyed. He was a truck driver, so I have no idea where he could be, and I don't care.

My mom works a lot. She is a phlebotomist at Glendale Memorial, mostly on the night shift. It works out okay, though, cause she sleeps while I am at school then we hang out until she has to go to work. She works hard, and is a good mom, even though I know she blames herself for not being around as much. She is taller than me, and thinner. Prettier, too, although she never wears makeup and her hair is always in a knot for work. My grandparents, her parents, are my only other family. They live about ten minutes away, and we see them every Sunday. My Gran is short and wide and everything you would expect of a grandmother. Although, she can't cook to save her life, and her knitting usually has missed stitches. Granda is loud and has a Scottish temper, but he's strong and I know he will always have my back. They have always supported my mom, and me even if they don't really understand what I'm going through right now.

I only have two friends. Sherry and Erin. They are how I used to be; happy, loud, and adventurous. Hanging out with them makes me remember my old self, and makes me feel like I still have a piece of that person in me. Even though I know she's long gone, its nice to pretend all that is happening hasn't broken me so much. They are great, and stood by me through everything. They defended me when it all started, saying it was all lies. They've been there through all of it. I figure they will eventually get tired of toeing the line between being popular and being friends with the slut, and that's okay. I feel bad that I drag them down sometimes. I will never blame them when they decide to give up on me. Everyone else has. Even me.

School is hell. I am sure it is like every other high school in America, or maybe the world for all I know. There are the popular kids who rule the universe and can do no wrong. Everyone worships them and wants to be them, following them around like flies buzzing around shit.

Then there are the rest of us.

I pause for a minute, my breathing becoming deeper and heavier in my chest as I think about school. I can see the halls, the lockers lining either side of my vision. I can see the crowds, the bodies blurring together as they pass me by. I am invisible, of course, until someone decides to target me. Then I hear the shouts, the vulgar comments, and the laughter.

My hands fall away from the keyboard, my eyes following to my lap. Immediately, I start flicking at the hair tie around my wrist, snapping it against my skin. I already have one tying my brown hair back into a ponytail. This one isn't for that.

This one was my first attempt at therapy.

My eyes are closed, my mind focusing on my breathing; on pushing the images from my head like a wiper pushing the rain off a windshield. I can feel the sting of the band on my wrist, but keep snapping it harder. It is helping.

I don't know how many minutes pass, but eventually my breathing evens and I can no longer hear my pulse in my ears. When I open my eyes, the brightness of my computer screen burns and I realize a few tears have escaped. Quickly, I reach up, wiping them away angrily. Nothing pisses me off more than crying over this.

In my anger, I place my fingers back on the keyboard.

I like Mexican food. I like romantic comedies and old slasher movies where the stupid girl falls down and the killer catches up to her even though she was running and he was walking. I like boy bands and happy music, even if I don't relate to the lyrics anymore. I like reading, because it is something I can do alone and no one really judges me for spending that time on my own. And because it lets me escape and be someone else for a while. I like being online, and observing other people. It is safer watching others than joining in, I think.

I hate hypocrites, liars, and assholes.

I started therapy because...

A chime on my computer breaks my attention away from my diary, my eyes falling to a tab at the bottom of the screen. It is flashing blue, indicating I have a new message. A frown pulls my lips downward as I hover the mouse over the tab. It is well after midnight; any of the people I usually talk to online are long asleep.

Clicking the flashing blue tab, the screen lifts to the forefront of my diary, dominating the laptop. Immediately, my heart clenches, my throat turns dry.

@SlutShamer346x

What's up slut?

I don't even have a chance to close the tab before another message comes through.

@SlutShamer346x

[image]

The image that appears makes my skin crawl, the same effect it has had over the last six months. No matter how many times I see it, it still makes my body weaken and my eyes flood with tears.

It isn't even an offensive photo, in the grand scheme of things. In reality, considering what some of people post on their public profiles, a photo of a girl kissing a guy shouldn't be so scandalous. Even if his hand is creeping up to expose her panties, the strap of her top falling a little too low, it isn't that bad.

She didn't sleep with him. She didn't do anything that dozens of other girls weren't doing at that very party that very same night.

It shouldn't ruin her life, right?

My fingers shake as I frantically maneuver the arrow over the user name like I have countless times before. So many times, I honestly really have lost count. Opening the profile, seeing the 'egg of anonymity' staring back, I feel a bubble of anger.

Do they have nothing better to do? Have they not found another game? Another victim to torment?

Apparently not.

Clicking the block option, I quickly close down the message, before doing the same to all my social media that have been hovering in the background. My heart is fluttering in my chest at the anxiety that has started to crawl over my skin, the cold feeling of adrenaline, the instinct to run bubbling in my stomach as I try to calm myself. Reaching over, I start flicking the hair tie on my wrist again. And again. And again. The sting is painful, but it isn't helping this time.

Staring back at me is my diary; the only screen I left open. I just want to get this stupid thing done and turn the computer off. Whatever therapeutic effect this exercise was supposed to have is shot to hell now anyways.

Placing my fingers on the keys, I harshly type out the answer to the final question I am expected to respond to for my first entry.

I started therapy because a photo and a rumor ruined my life.

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