*im reposting this. It had too many spelling errors and it was driving nutty*


How pathetic is it when you can't even seem to find your own reflection in the mirror? And how pathetic is it when you can feel nothing but a slight tingle in your body, though your heart still beats?

And how pathetic is it when all the cuts and bruises on your body are from yourself, from your own hands which they cry bloody tears?

And isn't it pathetic that a fifteen year old boy, instead of being out on a date or skateboarding with his friends, is inside his room, slicing his pale arms while chanting 'I'm sorry Jesus, I am a sinner"?

Emmanuel was fifteen. He lived in a small suburban neighbourhood where all the houses looked the same. Everyone seemed to be the same. His mother drove a Mini van while his Dad drove the Honda. He went to school... went to church....

Emmanuel appeared to be a normal boy, his arms hidden behind long sleeves, his ankles covered by long pants. Emmanuel was a catholic, very devote.

Emmanuel was so obsessive about Jesus it was to the point of insanity, to the point he is at now.

The point where he mutilated his body, to the point where he sobbed the night away because what he believed, as a sinner, he had killed Jesus Christ. He believed he had murdered Jesus with his sins...

Sins that were committed centuries after the mans death.

Along the wall hung crucifixes, pictures of Our Lady, and Saints. Everyday a new prayer, everyday a new saint. Everyday a new cut. Cuts that signified so much but so little. Cries for help from God. Cries for forgiveness, cries for perfection.

A perfection he'd never be.

And no matter how hard he will try to please God, No matter how hard he cuts himself, how deep he pushes the blade in his skin for Jesus, there will always be an emptiness, an emptiness that will drive him insane. An emptiness that no one, not God, not the church, not his parents, only he alone can fill.