Oh, what the hell is this? Is this just some crazy dream, or am I really experiencing wishes for death? I don't know, maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself for being such a pathetic loser…bah, who am I kidding? I'm too cowardly to actually kill myself. The inky black void that is waiting for me when I finish the deed scares me more than anything the world can throw at me. Yet, I still find myself sitting on a toilet at school, poised with a razor over my wrist, ready to slash across—no wait, "take the highway" is what they say will actually do the job rather than across the road…but then again, it doesn't matter, because I know I won't do it anyway.

The door creaks as someone enters the bathroom. I pull up my legs, hoping no one can spot my sneakers from under the door. There are two of them, laughing as they discuss their latest victim: Me. "Have you ever seen such a wimp as that Andy guy?" one of them asks. The other doesn't answer, just chuckles as he empties his bladder into the urinal, the white, scented block shrinking as the liquid hits it. They finish and wash their hands, talking about me and everyone else they deem pathetic enough to bother with their insults and jibes. I know they say that "hate" is a strong word, but "hate" is too good a word for them…or maybe me. That's right, I hate myself…wait, no, that's not it. I hate the person I am, I hate my personality. I'm not outspoken, I'm not very social, and I rarely distinguish myself. I want to change, but I'm afraid that my mannerisms are cast in cement in my mind. What if I make a fool out of myself? What if it doesn't help? What if I can't change at all?

I lower my legs again when I'm positive that they have left and quickly lock the door to the stall I'm sitting in. I stupidly forgot to do it when I came in half an hour ago. Has it really been that long? I look at my watch and realize that more than an hour has passed by. Time really does fly when you're having fun—or rather being preoccupied, because I certainly don't think this is very fun, not at all. Or am I? Maybe deep inside I'm getting some kind of sick pleasure of watching the glinting blade over my delicate skin, blue-green veins showing through. Maybe I need more nutrition, or perhaps a bit of sun, or is this normal for other people? Maybe the veins are supposed to be visible through the skin, so people like me can see where we are supposed to cut. I wouldn't know, I've never paid much attention to it. It's not like I can go up to someone and ask: "Hey, mind showing me your wrist for a minute so I can see if your veins are showing?" The person would most likely die from the shock of hearing me speak or run away, hoping I wouldn't go completely nuts. The event from the last party still haunts me this very day, even thought it happened two years ago.

The door creaks as someone enters, again. I once again pull up my legs as I hear a zipper being unzipped. The person groans, relieved that he can finally sit without squirming. The zipper makes a sound again, and the person walks over to the sinks and starts washing his hands. Personal hygiene is very important, especially if you're going to touch something as filthy as the door knob to the bathroom. It's a funny fact, that there are a lot more bacteria on door handles than on actual toilet seats. The person leaves, coughing. There is some kind of flu going around. I overheard it from a conversation in the cafeteria.

It's weird how I always seem to think so much when I'm sitting with the shiny metal object in my hand than when I'm not. I mean, I like to think of myself as fairly intelligent. My grades are good, I never get into arguments with my teachers, yet I never think deeply about my life unless I have a razor or some other kind of sharp thing close by. I'm glad I don't have wood shop; I would never get anything done with all those saws and other things.

I stand up when I feel my legs starting to fall asleep. I hate that prickly feeling, not to mention the sensation you get when you try standing on them. It feels like I'm going to collapse any moment when I do.

I remember when I used to have someone I could call a boyfriend. We had our ups and downs, sure, but everyone have those. He was the one who could help me through another horrible day in chemistry, hold me close when I weep at the unfairness of the world and whisper sweet things into my ear when sleep claims me. The world didn't seem so dark at that time. But of course, love like that can't last forever, at least not when you're in high school, or so I am told. I suppose it happens every day. Someone else comes by and he leaves you for him or her. It sucks. But who am I to deny him happiness? I completely understand why he would rather have a happy and energetic person to love rather than little, whiny me.

I resent the word emo. I don't write poetry; neither do I listen to depressive music. I don't grow my hair to cover my eyes, neither do I colour it black. I don't carry around a big journal to write down my angsty thoughts, no, I like to think real-time. I wear black clothing, yes, but I happen to like the colour—oh wait, black isn't a colour, it's a dark nuance. I've never cut myself before, and I'm not planning on it either. Claiming it to be a release…I've never understood it. How can pain be a release from pain? Physical pain can be controlled, true, but the emotional pain will still be there after your fix, you can never escape it.

I suppose I could try to have a positive outlook on life, but it's hard, and I'm not strong enough a person to have it. I'm just not strong enough. It kind of reminds of all these high school drama series, where the protagonist has a breakdown and needs his or her boyfriend or girlfriend to comfort them. I need that, I had that, but I wasted it with my own selfishness.

I sit down again when the circulation returns to my legs. Maybe I should go back to class; the teacher is probably wondering where I have been the last…seventy-five minutes. Nah, chemistry is ending in ten minutes anyway, and my lab partner sure can handle the experiments on his own. We're quite a pair, really. He is extremely smart and knows how to be the centre of attention, while I'm his direct opposite. I'm not dumb; I've just never had a good grasp at chemical formulas.

I recognize this stage of my ramblings. The end is approaching. This is where I usually put the razor back into my bag and head back to my locker to switch books to whatever class I have next and get on with my life. But something is different. I don't put the razor away and I don't walk to my locker. This time is…different. I try to think of the reason. Has something upset me more than usual? I can't remember anything. Maybe I'm having a breakdown and I don't even realize it.

My vision is glazing over and I feel wetness sliding down my face, some of it grazing the corner of my mouth. A quick inspection with my tongue reveals it to be salty. I suddenly feel a harsh pain in my wrist and I look down. I continue crying while looking down at my wrist covered in red liquid. I cry harder when I realize that this is it, this is the end. The one thing I've been trying to avoid is happening, and I didn't even realize it when it started. I feel a little dizzy; I wasn't expecting that much blood. Sure, I knew there would be a lot, but not this much. The razor must have gone deep. I faintly note that I forgot to take the highway.

The door creaks again as someone enters. I vaguely consider calling for help, but quickly remind myself that this is something I did myself, something I want. I'm tired now, so I'll just close my eyes a little, just to rest them a little, yeah, that's what I'll do.

Oblivion closes in around me as I hear someone yelling. "Someone is bleeding in here! Get a teacher!" I open my eyes just to check that the latch is still on and smile as I see it is. I close my eyes again. Hey, maybe darkness isn't so bad after all. I'm still crying though, I don't know why…

This story is based on something that happened to me a few years ago. Ages and such have been changed. Some of the things in this story are true, while other things are fictionary. I just remembered this during the holidays and I wanted to put this on paper so I could get it out of my mind, as I'm not very proud of that chapter of my life. Anyway, sorry to rain on everyone's parades. Happy new year, everybody, and may this year be a prosperous and happy one!