She could feel the stress and frustrations of the last few days building and growing with each additional failed call. In all reality, the job wasn't hard, but it seemed impossible with each passing minute of failure, hitting hard and strong. she worked hard not to take her knife to the favorite spot it likes to go on her forearm, instead, working on taking deep and even breaths, drinking large amounts of water. She cringes every time the manager walks by her chair, just waiting for the time he says "You have to go, you still aren't doing well enough." Painfully, she sits still, bursting with energy, wanting to let it all out, but not knowing how it will go. The knife sits in her pocket, calling her, pleading to be used to let out the energy bottled up inside. Forcefully, she tries to think of something else, anything else, hoping beyond hope that the moment will pass, pleading with God to let this moment pass. And slowly, minute by creeping minute, it does. Then she goes home, the frustration kept in, and no one at home any the wiser as to what has been going on inside. No one knowing about the struggle, the personal battle. And still, the knife waits, calling in her pocket, longing to be used.