I stared at my pale wrist, now dripping with my own blood. The once pristine-white sink tainted with red pools, leaking into the sink. I thought for just a second how delicious this might look to a vampire.

Ugh, I shouldn't have stayed up late last night reading those Creepypastas. I growled to myself, reflecting on how the voices grew silent, but seemingly screamed with pleasure as I read every single story. Well, two stories. The blood is what excited all of them, all these morbid voices calling out in my head at once.

I shouted at myself, suddenly, in displeasure. I should never have stayed up so late, I never should have read those stories. Because of how excited everything became, I finally did it. My "pearly-perfect" wrists that had never been obscured because of my depression, insanity, or anything, had been cut only moments ago. My depression kept coming in waves, harder each time. I struggled often just to resist laying on the floor and giving up. Some days that's exactly what I had to do.

I kept staring at my wrists as they pooled blood. The color was the exact shade of my hair, the exact look, except liquid and pooling out of my wrists. I watched it now, horror creeping though my chest, up my neck. I knew I wouldn't be sick, just devastated. I had broken my own promise to myself that I would never cut, never come close to my wrist with something sharp.

But the razor had been so compelling, somehow, when I dropped it and it broke. I picked it up, a razor blade loose from one of the edges that had snapped off. I took it and wrenched it out to study it. That was my original purpose, that's all. Just to study it.

That's what I kept telling myself.

I had subconsciously walked over to the sink as I studied the small metal blade. I sat on the counter, just staring.

Is this how my friends do it? I found myself thinking. What would it feel like?

No, I can't. Out of all these years, I can't cut myself. I have tried, but couldn't stomach it.

But this is a different blade, something that might not hurt. It's not a knife. Just slowly lower your hand…

I let the hand that held the blade hand drop to my alternate wrist, slowly.

Just a little pressure… That's it…

I pressed the blade to my wrist, but didn't break the skin.

Now… Just simply slide it across… Just like sliding something across a tabletop…

I let my hand drag across my wrist. My hand jerked away when I saw the blood and felt the stinging pain. The blood beaded for a moment, hen began dripping down my wrist that was parallel to the counter, hovering over the sink. Then it dripped as my hand shook.

I stared and stared at my wrist. Minutes passed as I stared at the falling blood. It was half an hour to an hour to see what I had really done. Half an hour to an hour to make me cry. By then it had begun to scab over. It wasn't even deep, just a small scratch, really. I've had way worse. But never on my wrists. Never intentionally hurting myself.

I finally got up, grabbed some toilet paper, and layered it over my wound. I, then, grabbed some paper towels and some spray to clean off the sink.

When I was done, I stared at the bloody rag. There wasn't that much blood…

So I'll admit I exaggerated so I could make it a little more dramatic. But, I did it to show how I felt when I realized what I had done. I felt terrible. I wanted more now to actually cut again, deeper. I wanted to end it all rather than admit I had done something I thought I would never succumb to.

Hell, let me go buy some cigarettes, too, since I'm breaking my own promises. I always wanted to show people you could get through life without cutting yourself or loading your head with drugs. Now, I regret doing anything, or even trying anything.

I just really wanted to die. Most of the time, that's the only thing I wanted. Now I wanted it more than ever.

Goosebumps rose on my arms as the room got colder. I looked up at the air conditioner, but couldn't hear if it had turned on or not.

"If you really want to die, why aren't you killing yourself right now?" a male voice whispered in my ear.

I ignored the voice in my head as it joined the others. I walked to my room and lay on my floor. Today I would not lose. I would not die. I would stay here, alive, and fighting. For something.

I would get back to myself on that.

I lay there, in the dark room for hours. I kept my eyes closed to the nothingness. I pretended I didn't exist. I pretended I was someone who wasn't me, someone who hadn't just cut their wrist. I let myself cry as I lay there.

I pretended I was stone. Stone can't hurt others, stone can't feel pain. Stone can't cut itself.

Stone is taken for granted.

People pass it like it's nothing. Sure, some notice it, take interest in it. But most of the time, it sat there unnoticed. No one asks what it wants for Christmas. No one does anything but kick it out of their way.

Maybe I was just a stone, a small rock in a field of gravel. And not one of the interesting-colored ones, either. Just a normal, gray, uninteresting, common stone. Hidden in plain sight, but no one can really see me. Out of all the stones you see, I'm underneath one.

"Get over yourself already."

"Kill yourself and be done."

"I want breakfast."

"Soar above the Grand Canyon's waterfalls."

"Die."

"Sleep is good."

The last voice stuck out from the rest. It was the one from earlier, the one I stated. It made me realize how tired I was for one in the morning. My insomnia apparently didn't want to hit me so hard tonight. Maybe it was because of my cutting.

I lay there, not wanting to get up. I didn't feel like I deserved my bed. I didn't feel like I even deserved this floor.

I felt the virtual darkness of sleep begin to creep around me. Icy arms of dreams wrapped around my torso, drawing me backwards against an icy body. It felt like death surrounding me. I welcomed the many nightmares that surrounded my sleep, and the unconsciousness welcomed my sleep.