Elyse had been in the car when her parents died. She had been screaming 'mummy' and 'daddy' until she was hoarse. She remembers the firemen, the policemen, the blood. But she does not remember what happened, how they were able to end up upside down in a ditch, the car more of a cube than a car.

She was 5.

With no family, no next of kin, she was put into foster care with a racist, unloving family. She was fed, clothed and had a roof over her head. But she was often called names, they did not encourage or give her hugs the way they did they other children in her care. Her foster mother didn't bat an eyelid as Elyse came into the kitchen bleeding, asking for bandaids. She had just handed her a box and told her to take care of it herself.

Elyse cannot remember her parents faces, their voices, she does not remember if they hugged her, kissed her good night or read her bedtime stories. She cannot remember ever having a friend, ever holding hands with another human being, or being hugged. She was ignored, blending into the wallpaper, just there, but not mattering.

Elyse had started self-harming when she was 12. Then it was only pinching, punching her leg. Then it was needle tips into soft skin. Then came the cutting. She threw herself down stairs, intentionally tripped, starved herself, swallowed liquids and objects with the intention of causing harm. Sometimes it was to see if she could get her foster parents attention. Mostly it was to feel something.

She was petite, standing only 5', her slender frame befitting of her Asian heritage. Except her breasts. She had been asked so often if her breasts were fake that they too became a target for her self-harm. DD cup breasts stood out on her tiny frame, drawing attention no matter how much she wore minimiser bras or baggy clothing. Her eyes were a light hazel, though hidden behind her glasses which she has worn since she was 10. She wore long sleeved blouses, long skirts and stockings, opting for flat shoes, and un-flattering cuts of clothing.