I sit. Alone. Bathing in my solitude. Embraced by darkness. Blood-stained carpet beneath my bulky combat boots. A fresh stream of sweet, red liquid flows down my raw forearm. Blade in hand, I come in for the attack. An inch short of coming in contact with my skin, my brain snaps. Everything comes into perspective, my life becomes clear. I still saw my arm. Why was I doing this? What good can come out of harming myself? What is wrong with me?

After bombarding myself with questions I glance at my clock. Damn. Its vibrant red numbers read 5:30. A.M. I had an hour until my mom would barge into my room, yelling at me to wake up or I would be late for school. Once again I had stayed up all night in a sad attempt to rid myself of pain and sorrow.

I grabbed a pad of gauze and placed it on my bleeding limb. After fifteen minutes of compression the flow still refused to cease. Panic started to hit me when I realized my shirt, pants, and carpet were all drenched in blood. How much blood had I lost? I started becoming dizzy on top of my mind numbing head ache. What is going on?

‘What is going on?’ That was the last thought I would ever have.

Forty-five minutes later, at 6:30 A.M. my mom came into my room. Only today she wasn’t able to wake me.

I sit. Dead. Alone. Bathing in solitude. Embraced by darkness.