I let the razor slip across my pale, sun deprived skin. A thin trail of blood trickles towards the drain where my bare feet rest. I think to the girls at school; their incessant gossip, their constant teasing, their never ending torment; my absentee best friend, fluttering from one new friend to another, ostensibly forgetting the one she’s leaving behind; the inadequacies I feel every day: I’m not good enough, I’m not smart enough. I’m nothing. My diary is next to me, and I let droplets of red soak the old, yellowing pages. Scrawled inside, my secrets; the blood soaks in, seeping through page after page of chicken scratch writing.

I let the razor fall, and one by one the pages rip from the binding. I hope they’re happy. I hope they are all happy. The pages slip into a pool of red, and my hand turns on the faucet. Steamy water soaks my hair, gluing strands of dark brown to my face. I pick the razor up, my hand quivering with anticipation, and let the silver blade slide across my throat.

I’m happy now.

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