A/N:  I'm so damn sick of the tiny, tiny spaces ff.net gives us to write summaries!! Grr.. Anyway, I wanted to write a longer summary but it wouldn't fit, so I'm writing it here instead.

Summary: I won't lie, I'm suicidal. Sort of. I don't want to die, I just don't want to live. So instead of committing the physical act of suicide I kill myself through my stories. Sick? Probably. But, hey, it keeps me alive. I wrote this a long time ago, after my best friend left me (awful, painful, long story that you probably don't want to hear. Basically, I was too fucked up for her. Or that's how she put it anyway.) I wrote this a while ago (a few weeks after it happened) but it got deleted so I'm posting it again, mainly because after months of thinking I was over it I recently realized that I'm no more stable now than I was the night it happened. So yeah, I've been having a hard time with it now that we're in the same school again.  *Sighs*  Please review?

            I pick up the knife and turn it around in my hand, knowing what must be done, and yet, knowing that I can't.

            "I just can't take you anymore. Maybe we'll be friends again when you're less fucked up. Until then, just stay away from me."

            The words repeat in my head, tearing up my heart and soul and suddenly I know I have the strength to do it. I roll up the blue sleeve of my sweater and pause slightly to look at the crisscrossed red and pink scars on my forearm, some fresh, and some from years ago, all of them memories of the hurt and pain suffered so long ago.

            I raise the knife in the air, the light catches it and it glistens as I slice it into my wrist and feel the immediate sense of well-being. But there will be no more scars after this. This will be the last, and this wound wasn't made with the intention to hurt myself. No, this was meant to kill. To kill myself. Physically. Because emotionally, I'm already dead.

            As I lie on the floor in an expanding pool of red blood, I think of my ex best friend. I wonder how much you'll give a fuck about me when I'm dead, I think to myself, as her words repeat in my head.

             "I just don't give a fuck about you anymore."

            All of a sudden, someone is banging on the door. "Teah, what are you doing it there?"

            Suddenly, Nina is standing over my crimson colored body. She covers her mouth, "Oh my God," she whispers and picks up the phone to call 911.

            But it's too late. Because I'm already gone. I've been dead since Anne ended our friendship over my problems, screaming that she wasn't my fucking therapist and she couldn't take me or my problems anymore. Well, I think to myself as I drift off into unconsciousness, at least now you won't have to put up with me anymore. Now I'll be no one's problem. A burden off everyone's shoulders. Goodbye, Anne. I always loved you, even if you couldn't find it in your heart to love me.