A/N: This is first story I've written in several months. Based on myself and true happenings. I.E. I was depressed one night, went through the following story, and wrote it down. Enjoy my depression. Well, I cut some other aspects of the night out, but that's because my personal problems and my life are none of your concerns. Despite this, it is not a biography style thing. It is a story technically of fiction, or at least I want it to be. Be entirely honest in your criticism / comments on my story. Otherwise, I will review things of yours and be painfully honest about it. I want real comments, not mindless twitter.

Oh yeah, I hold all rights to my story. For more information, read the automatic copyright at the bottom of the page (the one by FictionPress). The title of this story is taken from a song title by AFI. I don't own the name.

A Story at Three

I can see my wrist, so pale against the dark sheets. It is so very inviting... I move my mouth over the skin of it, and slash it with my incisors until I can feel the skin break, the blood pour out. I release my hold and look down on it. Blood wells languidly from the cut, a deep crimson, almost black. I sigh happily, watching it flow freely from beneath my skin. The darkness of the blood only serves to make more obvious the stark whiteness of my skin. It is a most tantalizing sight.

I shake my head wearily. I am tired of such thoughts. I can no more cut myself than I could kill my own mother. It would destroy my carefully portrayed image, and crush my parents. I have too much willpower to do that to them.

This is what inevitably happens when I am left alone with my thoughts. I need to get out of my room. Perhaps I should go to my parents' room. That would stop the bloodlust for a while. I know better than to think such loud thoughts in their presence. They would know what I was thinking. My family is like that; it is partially our spiritual awareness, and partially because we have gypsy blood in our veins...no, best not to think in such terms.

I groan in pain as I stand up. My lower back has been hurting me for nearly two months now, and it hasn't yet let up. It mainly only hurts when I sit, though occasionally it will start up when I walk or lay down.

I sigh and begin the short trek to my parents' room. I walk past the kitchen, where my little older sister is sitting, reading through the Settlement Cookbook. As I step into the den, I can see through the hallway and into my parents' room. I can see my mom lying on her side, snoring loudly and my father watching the damned television. A flash of sadness, aloneness overcomes me, and suddenly I have turned and stalked back into my room.

I feel like crying, and that is something I cannot do in front of anyone. Not even in my own family. I am a very private person, you see. I do end up crying, though I shed but one tear. Self-pity is not something I am accustomed to, though I should be by now, as it is so often taking control of my psyche.

My hand is resting lightly on my arm. The sudden impulse to claw my arm raw comes to mind, but I quickly shove one hand under the pillow under my head, and bury my face in it. Then I have the sudden urge to punch myself in the eye. I sigh again and sit up, making sure to keep all of my limbs a safe distance from each other. My lower back begins cramping, and I know there is nothing worth a damn on the television to take my attention off it.

I move by my computer and make a decision. I sit in front of the monitor, and begin to write a story. I hope you have enjoyed it.