I sit on the ugly tiled floor, a blade in my shaking hand. How had my life come to this? Sitting in the darkness surrounded my the demons that I created. God how had it all happened?
I press the blade to where my vines lie adding a small amount of pressure, not enough to make be bleed, I hesitate before adding more pressure, slowly slicing the pale, delicate skin of my wrist, the pain flows like the blood leaking from my wrist, I close my eyes in pleasure. Why hadn't I done this sooner? I lean back against the wall in bliss, the world around fading away, 'It's not like anyone will miss me anyway' and then darkness.
