Previously published on Mibba. Warning: contains depressing themes and sensitive issues theme.

All rights reserved. I own everything contained within, no part may be used or reproduced without my permission.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead are purely coincidental.

I lay my weary body upon the rickety old bed, breath quick with cynicism and pain. The world is a scary place and I just don't want to be here anymore. The ceiling swirls with a myriad of shadows and dust particles. My wrists itch with the familiar longing, the want, the need. The relief that I feel from the rusty edge of a knife is astronomical.

My life is a shambles. I am just the stupid, clumsy girl. The least loved of my siblings. The ferocious wind howls outside of my window, rattling the panes like a hungry beast, widening it's gaping maw as it prepares to swallow me whole. I welcome it, I welcome anything that can get through my fog, my pain, the cold, hard heart ache.

I sit up slowly, closing my eyes as the blood rushes to my head and shuffle across my bedroom, the bedroom that Mum insisted she decorate. Her style, her choice. I hate it. I want to rip the stupid flowery wallpaper from the walls, I want to tear the curtains down and cut myself until I bleed all over them. But I don't, instead I take out my trusty razor, my salvation, my best friend and press it to my wrists.

The pain feels good. I watch with grim satisfaction as my ruby red blood pools from the wounds and up my arm, settling in the crook of my elbow. The pain isn't going, why isn't the pain going? It normally works. The wind is picking up in intensity, it pounds into my windows like an angry ram. My chest hurts, I can't breathe, can't see. I want out.

I stand up, chest heaving, eyes alight with a kind of insane fervour. I move – almost on autopilot towards my bedroom, reaching almost blindly for the doorknob. My hands are slick with sweat and slip numerous times from the cool metal. I scream in frustration and finally manage to yank the door open. I stumble drunkenly before regaining my bearings. To the bathroom I go, or should I say, medicine cabinet.

My fingers are shaking with pain, desire, a sick kind of desperation and something else that I cannot quite put my finger on. I give a cry of triumph as my hand encloses the cold, brown painkiller bottle. I don't bother being quiet, Mum is at work, Dad is dead. There's no one to stop me. What I want.

I stumble back to my bedroom, eyes flickering around the gaudily decorated walls for one last time. This is the last time I'll sleep in that bed, the last time I'll wake up to those walls, the last time I'll wake up at all. It's a bitter pill to swallow, I don't want to die. But I want to suffer even less, I have to do this. It's my destiny of sorts, I was always going to be the psycho, suicidal girl. I was always going to be the girl with the scars, the girl who hides from the truth. The truth hurts but life hurts more.

I slide down to the floor, fists clenching at the thick, shag pile carpet. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps and fat, salty tears roll down my face My heart is pounding, building a crescendo inside my rib cage. It seems as if it knows what I am about to do and wants to pump the blood around my body. One last time.

With nimble fingers, I open the bottle. My hands are shaking so much that I'm scared I will spill the contents, lose my only way out. The pills are my saviour, they are saving me from a life of misery, of pain, of hurt. My small, cold hands enclose around the small, cold bottle as I bring it to my lips.

I take a deep breath and tip my head back. The tablets are bitter and make me retch but I push past the wall, the voice of reason that is telling me to spit them out. I swallow, shuddering as they scrape my throat, sliding slowly to my stomach, slowly poisoning me.

And then suddenly, when my stomach is starting to hurt and my vision is beginning to blur – the fear strikes me. My whole body is shaking as I climb sluggishly to my feet and stagger to the bathroom. I have to get it out, I need to live. Before it's too late.

I drop to my knees on the cold linoleum and clutch at the cold porcelain – cold as deaths clammy grip and stick my fingers down my throat. It hurts, my muscles contract and suddenly, I am vomiting, remnants of the white powdery substance, draining my body of poison.

I lay there on the floor, chest heaving, eyes blurred with tears. I can feel myself getting weaker, fatigue is taking over. I know I won't die now. I rid myself of the poison that surely would have taken my life. I cannot drain the poison of my mind, I'm broken, unfixable. I was never whole.

As I lay upon the cold tiles of my bathroom, I stare up at the yellow ceiling. My pain is my destiny and I must fulfil that destiny and live. I am like a broken web, the fragile binding is gone – never to be repaired.