The Day Has Come Where I Have Died

...Everybody thinks they're the only ones hurting. They say words thinking their the only ones hurting. Everybody thinks their the only ones hurting...until someone decides to end it. Until someone decides to die.

The cold dead, cupped by the warmth of the blood dripping from their wrists and puddling beneath the cold white tiled floor. The cold dead, symbolized by the white dress worn to pray for innocence to a God who doesn't give a shit. Perhaps it's something like a parent who kills off their offspring when they're born with a defect. Will the age come where we'll be aware of a fetus' psychological defects so we can kill it before it kills itself? Genetic screening is frowned upon by many societies and many individuals because we cannot fathom the idea of 'killing someone off' because they don't live up to what you want (perhaps they have down-syndrome, genetically carried diseases, etc) but would it not help the 'masses' to kill someone that will eventually kill themself?

Well, I killed the girl in my bed last night. She was lying there, with her eyes wide open because the horror movie playing out in her reality was too distressing and heartbreaking to allow her to shut her black eyes. I hovered over her, watching her mouth quiver and wells of tears build up in the sacs of her eyes. Her pride was holding her back, but when I stroked her shoulder, chills sent down her spine, she let down the sluices and let the dam flow over. I held her, I felt her ache, I felt the black hole where her heart stood. Her life played out, recollections of hidden memories. Vases thrown to walls, "you bitch" yelled out, a little girl curled under her sheets. Tears. Head laying in a puddle of wet sheets. Guilt. Regret. Pain. The overwhelming pain of puncturing her skin. The comfort she felt. Momentarily forgetting the hurt..............................................................................................................................................................................................................

The bed was bleeding. Drip. Drip. Drip, it leaked off the duvet, counting the seconds. The light became brighter. The pain became distant. She smiled before she shut her eyes, savoring the moment. The first instance in which nothing else mattered. Her heart beat faded, her pulse grew slow and her black skin went pale.

I killed the girl in my bed. She's slept alone for the last night. I killed the girl in my bed last night, and the scars on my wrists will forever be a reminder of my glorious deed as I walk these paths identified by my soul. I killed myself in my bed last night, and the happiness is overwhelming.