The knife cut deep into her soft, pale skin. Her skin was so pale, in fact, that she could see the tiny capillaries split in two as she sliced them. A smile came across her face as blood came to the surface and seeped out. It ran down her arm in several small streams. She watched its unpredictable twists and turns as it glided across her skin and dripped on to the floor.

Words hadn’t reached them.
Tears hadn’t phased them.
Maybe blood would.

The carpet slowly turned to a deep red. She could feel the puddles beneath her feet. She became weak and her legs gave out, plummeting her body down on to the warm red liquid. The numbness traveled up her arm. Her skin was even more pale than it had been before.

She had called out for help. It was a call that had never been answered.
This was her last call. It could never be answered.

Her feelings had never made a difference.
Maybe her corpse lying on the floor would.

And when they wondered why she did it.
They should remember, she had called.