A few deep cuts were all it took to get me addicted to the intense pain of cutting. It had begun as a dare, but now, I just couldn't get enough of the adrenaline that hit me each time I created a new slit on my wrist. I watched as the blood started flowing, trickling down, out from underneath my skin. The time never seemed to matter when I became so indulged with the sting and ache brought by the blade. Yes, the harsh throbbing caused tears to form and roll from my eyes, but the agony from that burning sensation allowed all the other misery that I kept tucked so deep inside me to escape, disguised and hidden from the world. I was falling deeper and deeper into my addiction with each passing day, and every cut made me crave more. Though every slit I engraved into my skin seared with pain, not one stung as much as my first cut, and that sting was what I ached for. One day, I found a thickly crafted knife with sharp, jagged ends on the kitchen counter, and acted upon my first impulse almost instantaneously, grabbing it and slashing my wrist repeatedly and deeper each time, searching for that immense pain that I had had the first time I scarred myself. Each time I cut, more blood spilt, and with every drop I started to feel less human and less alive. My body swooned slowly after a sudden slit of my vein, and just as I was falling to the floor, I realized what I had done to myself. But it was too late; before I knew it I was lying on the floor, dead, soaked in my own sea of blood.