My hands rest on the old, filthy, white sink in the bathroom of the apartment I'm sleeping in. Their backs rest against the cold while palms sweat and fingers shake in rhythm to my erratic heartbeat. The pulse in my wrist would be jumping out if I could take my eyes away from the face on the wall that I know should belong to me.

I see no familiar face in the bloodshot eyes that carry the weight of the world in bags beneath them. The pallor of skin looks almost as ghostly as my fathers. The blue ice in the eyes is the only thing making this full figured skull look alive. Veins ache with the knowledge that I have one more thing in common with the man I have not seen in years.

I am tired, but sleep will not come to me. My eyelids have not closed in two nights and I am the only one who knows this. My ribs have left permanent indentations on my lungs from the force of the silent wails that escape my lips at two in the morning. The bottle of scotch in the kitchenette is now residing in my liver, and I cannot imagine the state of my throat from retching the putrid concoction of stomach acid and liquor.

I do not want to die like my father. I will not go out from blood clots desperately trying to hold the tattered pieces of stomach tissue together as I waste my days alone with a bottle of red wine and week old Mc Donald's. My mother's lungs were black at one point, but she still had a heart when she left me. He was trying to create a heart out of lithium, memories he did not have, and an empty cavity that should have housed the organ necessary for human survival. It's no wonder that he didn't die of a heart attack. He did not have one in the first place.

I terrify myself. I've watched Wristcutters on repeat for the past week. I've re-read Crash Into Me and Impulse so many times, trying to make a joke out of the thoughts that haven't left my mind since the first time I lost my voice this month.

I bought a pistol in Florida on the road trip I can't remember as a dare, and I haven't sold it yet. There are three bullets. One is for the monster in my closet, the paranoia that hasn't left me since childhood and the scars on my wrists that can't fucking fade away because I still have fresh ones from this week. The second one is for the memory of whom I used to be. At one point, I was happy. I was carefree, and with people whom loved me more than I ever realized when I was alive. I was a girl with her first scars who cried in her mother's arms for disappointing her. I'm surprised that she isn't rolling around in her grave over who I have become.

I have a shaving razor in my burlap rucksack that I have not used yet, but tonight is the night. I dressed in my best suit with a black shirt and tie. I have my first pair of cuff-links on, the ones with the cars that reminded me of the childhood I never got as a boy. I laugh at the thought that I don't want to stain my suit, yet I'm going to stain the hearts of my best friend and my little sister in just a few hours. I shave my face carefully, refusing to nick my neck. I kept my vanity from my female years, and I want to look clean when they bury me.

My wrists slice open delicately, blood pouring into the sink until it overflows. The only thought in my mind is that I should have taken pills. The pistol is still in my bag. I did not use it because I didn't want to wake up my baby sister.

I realize too late that she will be the one to find me. Her girlfriend is staying with her mother because she refused to stay when I was in their home.

I think about the bullets I never used. I never slayed my demons. I never killed off my memories. I did end up killing one thing properly, but it never should have been me.

In the morning, she does not know that my eyelids have not closed in three nights as she closes mine for the last time.