I sit alone. Moonlight seeps in through the window, casting shadows upon the floor. A moan passes my lips. Perhaps if I hold myself, wrap my arms around myself, the pain won’t spill out. I don’t want the world to see my scars, the ugly and unwanted reminders of my past.

The room is bare. There is nothing in it except me. I am the only piece of furniture that never leaves. Bloodstains cover the walls, messages that I have written each time I had tried to kill myself. I longed for death, for an escape from it all. It seemed unlikely that it would ever work though. My mother always said that there was “too much life” in me, and that’s why it never worked. That may have been the case a few years ago.

I pick up a mirror that lies beside me and look into it. Such a mess. My eyeliner has run down my face, ushered along by my tears. My hair, although black is in need of brushing. Sadness chokes me, and, in an attempt to rid myself of my image, I throw the mirror against the wall. It shatters into a million pieces. I look down at my wrists. If I wasn’t used to it, I’d be shocked or repulsed. Ripped and cut to oblivion. All they are are two gaping wounds that refuse to stop bleeding. I hope that this is the last attempt. It is certain to work, after all, who will stop me? My mother washed her hands of me a long time ago, and my father doesn’t know anything about me or my situation.

The room I sit in used to be my mother’s bedroom. She took all of her possessions with her when she left. I had no other place to go, so I sat in this room for a few days to think. A few days turned into a few months, and that became a permanent fixture. I’m not the only thing in this room; there just isn’t any furniture. Around me lay a circle of things. Razorblades, empty wraps, an empty vodka bottle. I took the self-destruction path in life. All of my teachers said I had so much potential. That was before I started drinking to numb the pain. After I was suspended when they found me in possession of cocaine, they stopped telling me I was bright. They stopped treating me like an intelligent girl.

I can imagine people using this room as a crack den when my blood stops flowing. I can imagine a group of coked up teenagers finding my body. They would consider calling the police, but they remember that they’d been doing drugs and just leave me to rot. It’s sad really, the thought of my body being left, abandoned. There’s no avoiding it though, I know it’s going to happen.

I’m watching my blood trickle out of the wound. It’s not gushing anymore, so I know I’m near the end. I almost wish I had someone to love, someone who’d love me. I know now that it can’t ever happen. People are too selfish to love someone unconditionally. I can feel my breath slipping away now...Perhaps this is the end.