I sat in my room on the floor with a bottle of Jack Daniels between my knees. I was sweating and nauseous but i kept drinking the bitter liquid down. I can't do this anymore. My life is not the best. It's something you would see in a sad movie or the beginning of a new murder tv show. Alcohol is the only thing that kept the box of blades beneath my bed.
I looked down at my arms. The pink lines that were scratched there years ago were like highlighters in my eyes. They taunted me day in and day or with their silent voices. Worthless. Weak. Pathetic. I took another long sip of the whiskey to wash the thoughts away. What's the point of life anyways? Those people who say their happy. They're liars. Is happy a real thing? Or is it some made up fantasy written by an innocent child? I tiped the bottle to my lips and drained the rest. Someone could punch me in the face right now and i would probably think it was funny.
Reaching into my bra, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number by habit. It rang so many times before the operator finally said, "I'm sorry. The number you have dialed is out of service." Then dial tone. I forgot, she's dead.
I crawled my way under my bed and pushed my box outward. Drunken tears rolled down my cheeks like a broken faucet as i ripped the lid off the brow box. I pulled my favorite from the dozens. A blade from my dead father's razor. I pulled it across the delicate skin on my left wrist.
The whimper that escaped my lips made me feel alive like i was worth something and i wasn't just a dead weight, alcohol consuming, ball of sadness. And i did it again.