I sit in my room hollding the knife, pondering if I should take this gigantic step towards death or brush it off again as I have so many times in the past.
Through my mind run the tales of hurt and hate that I have so oftan experienced. The cruel and harsh words that have been spoken to me by my enemies still linger in my cold thoughts of hatred. in my soal lies a burning craving for the satisfying pain and comfort that the knife has always brought. It runs in my family you know? Homicide, suicide, alcaholism, drug addictions, It is hereditary, so I have been told. Im tired of my HERITAGE! Im tired of life. So here I am again with the knife in my hand and the fury burning inside me. I press the cold blade against my skin and feel an organic rush in which only self mutilation can cause. People don’t understand the satisfaction I recieve in feeling my own blood running down my arm. I have always loved blood. I wonder if it was the color, the thickness, or merely the pain that goes along with it. But i have loved it since early childhood. Even at seven I used to play with sharp objects and laugh when I bled.I lways told my mom I needed help…but did she listen…NO! I made a jump for help myself at the age thirteen I convinced her to check me into a mental hospital. But it did no good. Because here I am again in this familiar situation in which I have experienced oh so many times. Only this time Im going to succede. I begain to feel dizzy and weak as I lay in a puddle of my own blood. Im slipping away now everything is going black. And for once in my life a smile creaps onto my face for I am now leaving this planet. I will no longer be hurt. And I laugh aloud as I take my last breath.