A/N: This is probably the most emo thing I have ever written in my life, and looking back on it makes me laugh. It was written in September of 2008 - this was back when I had the worst teacher in my entire school as my homeroom teach, and I was pissed. Life never went my way when I was in grade eight, but in all honesty, it never really drove me into suicide or drugs. I wrote things like this, as dark as it may seem, to keep myself from going that far. The truth is, I've never put a blade to my wrist or a noose around my neck; I've never been that kind of kid. But I read this tonight and I thought it wasn't too bad a piece - if anything, it was inspiring. The rough times of my life are over now, and although I still have my bad days, I don't think like this anymore. So, I upload this piece as my way of saying don't kill yourself! If you really are depressed, and you show signs of depression, please, get help. If you're just going through your hormonal state, don't resort to suicide, homicide, or drugs to make you feel better - tough it out and try to make the best of things. If you're really bad off, send me a PM; I'll definitely try to help you get over things or help you see the good side of your problems. Thank you for reading.


So badly I want to. I'm going to. I have to. I can't stop it, nature is calling me to. My head is spinning. I can't think any straighter than that the knife on the counter is my only escape. It glints so micheviously in the light, beckoning me to walk towards it, lift it, and bring it to my delicate skin. But I can't. I know some where deep in my heart that tomorrow will be better than today. Maybe.

But that's what I told myself yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. So will it really be better tomorrow? I take a step towards the counter. My step is wavering, unsure. But I know I must. I can't avoid death forever with the lame excuse that tomorrow will be better. I know it won't be. I know it's just words I tell myself to stop from throwing away my life. But I don't need it anymore.

This is it. This is the real thing. There aren't any options anymore, like tomorrow will be better than today. I don't need help from people. It always turns out the same, anyway, and you're right back where you started. Hell, I haven't even turned to drugs as a resort, because I know they won't make it better. Nothing will, and I have come to accept this. The shiny knife is my only escape.

You're probably saying to yourself right now that I should just tell someone. Talk to someone. Maybe someone can convince me back into not doing it. Another step towards the knife. People don't care. I could tell the whole world, and no one would give a fucking shit. I know this already, so I don't bother. They haven't for the last few years, why start now, right?

Besides, all I am is a liar. I've said in the past I'd kill myself, but I never do it. This time, I was dead serious. My long silky bangs hid my grey eyes and my hands clenched at my sides in my grey sweater with black poka dots. I stop cold in my tracks, breathing in and out as calmly as I can, which isn't very. A single tear drips from my chin to the floor where it shatters like glass. Nothing remains of me now.

I take another step, my arm extending. My hand inches it's way towards the knife, and I know there is no turning back now. The large knife, which should have been hidden away in the cupboards, was now in my grasp. The power I felt by just holding it close to my heart was incredible. I felt like the Green River Killer or the Zodiac Killer. Ones who had murdered many.

I flipped my left arm belly up, and set the sharp of the knife against my pale skin firmly. Holding it there, I felt it's cool blade getting used to my body tempurature. I was breathing calmly now. My heart beat was normal. I was not afraid of the knife that would soon claim my life. But that wasn't true. It was my teacher and my principal who were actually claiming my life. They made it a living hell, after all, driving me to pure suicide.

I suddenly chucked the knife into the closet door. It made a thud sound as it lodged there. I fell to the ground, my face covered by my hands as I cried into the sleeves of my sweater. I couldn't do it. I couldn't claim my own life at the last second. Blood began to soak into my sweater, and I slowly got the nerve to shift down my left sleeve a little. A red line was placed across my wrist, bleeding slightly.

There was more people in my life that I cared for. That's what had stopped me. Those I cared for too much to kill myself. I was weak. I was pathetic. I was breathing.