I was running. I was running to a bridge. I was running to a bridge to jump. Adrenaline pumped through my scarred body, as I was almost at my destination. I got to the bridge. It was pitch black outside. Not even the stars could shine through the thick cloud of thoughts of the night.
I grabbed my blade, and a bottle of pills. I sliced every inch of skin to the point that I was a bloody mess. I tried to open to bottle of pills, but the blood tainted by my thoughts had made it too slick to open. I tried and tried to get the lid off. Eventually, I did. I took every last pill. I didn’t want to fail. I would make sure I died.
I looked down at the jagged rocks that lie below the bridge, forty feet down. I stood on the edge of the bridge, awaiting my destiny. I leaned forward, and fell. Just as I was about to hit the rocks, something happened. I woke up.
Why was it just a dream? Why couldn’t it be real? That’s all I wanted. Just one thing. To die. Why was that wish so difficult to achieve? Innocent people die on the streets everyday, by doing daily tasks, yet I couldn’t manage to kill myself after several attempts.
I was such a failure. I couldn’t succeed in the simplest of things. Thousands of people die everyday. And I was unable to make myself one of them. I guess suicide wasn’t all that simple. The irony is life would be simpler if death was easier.
I repeated the previous days actions once more. I got on the bus, went to homeroom, went to my morning classes, and sat staring at the wall during lunch. I was tired. Tired of sitting here purposely, and tired of living.
I couldn’t be bothered to do any work in class, or even socialize with the people who pitifully try to speak to me. I just shrugged whenever I was spoken to. I was lifeless.
I went back to my house, and cut. I cut, and cut, and cut some more.
There was no reason for me to stop. What was the point? If I can’t kill myself, I can at least cause some major damage.
My skin was getting tougher to cut through. I guess it had gotten used to the blade carving into it, and was finally trying to do something about it.
I didn’t let that stop me. I just had to cut deeper. I would find a way to mangle my body. The more blood that was drawn, the better I was. I felt powerful, as I thought I could control my fate. It made me feel strong, though I was really incredibly weak. I couldn’t even go through the day without being torn down. The slightest touch would shatter me.
Tears poured down my face, but I was silent. Blood rolled down my legs, but I was motionless. I was nothing.