She stares into the mirror, the old, faded mirror that hangs in her bedroom. Her eyes are red and puffy, from countless tears she’s cried that night and the countless nights before. The sun has long since past, yet her curtains remain untouched, framing the window, making seem bare without the protection from the night. Her usually beautiful golden hair hangs limply and dully around her face, a tangled mess not bothered with a brush.

Before the mirror she stands, for the longest time unknown. Slowly moving towards the room, her favorite room, in the house. She stares in the mirror of that room. She’s made her choice. She picks up her favorite object, the only thing she’s loved for the longest time. It’s been one of those days again, and she needs something to help her sleep. Sleep.

Staring, cutting, bleeding she chants:

“The knife it is my only friend, it will be with me to the end.”

The white tiled floor is stained with red. Blood spills across everything, and she cuts deeper, presses harder. She kneels on the ground as the picture in her mind of the room gets fuzzy. Everything is getting blacker.

She crawls back to her room, laying before that same aged mirror. Everything is getting softer now. The pain is lighter, the mind is freer. Staring once more into the mirror as she slowly slips away, looking at myself in the mirror.

Covered in blood, all the blood I once possessed inside my tender veins I mutter:

“You’ve got red on you…”

My mind closes, my body goes limp, but my laughter echoes forever within the empty house.