That night, I was alone in my small flat. It was raining, I remember the smell of the rain and soil. Though it was cold and chilly, my palms were sweaty and I could feel the heat started to take over my head, my mind.
That night, I decided to kill myself.
I was leaning on the kitchen counter, knife beside me. I never used that knife but to cut something like plastic or my wrist. I never cooked anymore since I moved here.
The flat I was living in was a quiet one, people who lived here mostly were youngsters like college students just like me, elders, and there was this kinda-scary woman who lived in room number 78. I met her once when I bought something from our floor's vending machine.
She had this brown, curly hair which reminded me of my classmate, thin body and oh, those big eyes. It always amazes me. But her way speaking was really unnerving and she always had this dont-speak-to-me aura. So that time I just smiled at her-
which she replied with a grin.
She was pretty.
If only I knew her name.
I never asked a girl out. I was such a coward.
And people would just ignore me- she'd just ignore me, anyway. As long as I remember, my life had always been suck. So did I.
I stared at my wrist. If you saw my wrist right now, I'm sure you'd freak out. I had so many old scars here, oh, and these new scars I made just days ago. I never cut with a razor, though. It must be painful.
I took the knife, and carelessly dragged it on my wrist. On my palm. On my thighs. I- I didn't know why. For years I lived, I knew for sure that I was not a strong person to endure pain or sharp objects, even like a needle, to scar me like this.
But for years too I realized I had been doing that routinely and the pain was just like- invisible? I don't know how to describe it.
The blood started staining my shirt, the floor- my palms were covered in it. Oh, God. I hate its smell. I was dizzy. My vision started to get blurry, and it was getting hard to breath.
If my parents saw this, if my friends saw this...
I'd make sure to look them right in their eyes and stabbed myself so they could see how I die- so I had someone, to at least accompany me in my last breathe.
But you have nobody. Nobody wants to be there for you.
I named this voice as Jamie. Jamie was a bitch. She always there to make me feel worthless (I know that fact already, no need to remind me). She was my main reason why I cried almost every night.
All I wanted to tell was, I was battling myself. Jamie. My own mind.
It would never gone-
not when I'm still alive.
The pain would never leave me unless I die.
