The End


Vision in red,

Crimson,

Like fresh blood.

Screams of anguish echoing in the mind;

Representation of your inner turmoils.

The mind races,

Slows down.

But it only ever seems to slow,

On thoughts you do not want.

You cry out for help,

For a way to be free of this pain.

But no-one can hear your cries.

That, or they just refuse to believe them.

You feel alone.

Who can you turn to?

Who can you trust?

You need a way to release the pain.

You find it.

A razor-sharp knife

Calls to you in the night.

After contemplating for a few moments,

You press the bladed to your flesh and cut.

AS the metal pierces your skin,

Relief floods over you.

It feels so good.

The physical pain

Allows you to forget your turmoils,

Even if just for a moment.

But soon,

It's no longer enough.

It stops releasing the emotional pain;

Does nothing but add another scar

To your already scarred arm.

You search for other ways,

But they too,

In turn,

Lose their effect.

There's only one option left,

One way to end the pain forever.

Death.

The idea is frightening.

It's ridiculous.

It's enticing.

It slowly begins to sound better and better.

Your list stating why you shouldn't,

Becomes smaller and smaller.

Until eventually it becomes a list

Of why you should.

You're not worth living.

Nobody loves you.

You're a screw-up,

A mistake.

No-one will miss you when you're gone.

Your desperation for an easy way out,

Blinds you from other ways.

You make the decision,

And find your way to the medicine cabinet.

You find the pills which sound the most deadly,

And down the bottle.

As you lie there,

Waiting for the pills to kick in,

Your whole life flashes before your eyes.

Suddenly you realize you're not ready to die,

That you have so much to live for.

But it's too late now,

There's no turning back.

Your life is over.

You have ceased to exist.