The morning was cold.
I felt cold.
I felt disgusting.
Last night was a night that I could never ever forget.
The hands,
The face,
That smirk,
All consumed me.
"No," I kept saying,
"No, no, no, no, no, no."
I fought, but lost.
I tried but soon gave up.
What was the point to keep fighting if I never was going to win?
I feel slimy on the inside.
Why did this happen to me?
Why me?
Why?
Does this world hate me?
Does it?
A glint in the corner of my vision catches my attention.
“Should I?" I ask myself.
"Would this solve my problems?"
It came out in an almost inaudible whisper,
But it may as well have been a shout in my ears.
I grab the handle for the hundredth time since last night,
Contemplating.
Would one simple object really be able to help me?
Get rid of this misery,
This disgusting feeling that I will never be myself again?
A piece of my soul is missing.
It will never come back to me.
How could it when it was ripped out so brutally last night?
Trust is forever a part of me that will never be present again.
I stared at the object in my hand for very long minutes.
Before my mind could tell me no,
My hand was moving,
The blade at my wrist,
Biting into the flesh.
A small gasp escaped my lips at the pain,
But soon it was gone.
The blade was resting at my neck,
I take a big breath,
My last breath,
And slice across before my rational mind catches up.
My last thoughts were,
"I hope that man goes to hell."