You're sitting right there. Only a few desks in front of me. I could've hit you with the paper ball curled up in my hand, but I won't. 'Cause then you'd hate me, just like everyone else. If you don't hate me already, that is. You raise your hand. "The french revolution started in 1789, a hundred years before the Eiffel tower was built." Where did you get so clever? I've always been "the clever one". "The genius". But not any more. I'm surrounded by the people who destroyed my life. The people who nearly killed me. They don't know. They're ignorant, idiotic, stupid. But most of all they're normal. They're happy. They haven't felt the pain I'm feeling, the burning power that surges through my veins. Anger. Grief. Panic. Loneliness. Distrust. And worst of all, doubt. I'm not used to doubting, but it's getting more normal each day.

The pain. It eats me up, killing me slowly from the inside and out. It starts playing with my mind, making me go insane. I never thought one could experience such pain, but it seems one can. I still live, don't I? But not for long. So many times I've been stopped, but not this time. They are killing me, saying the world would've been better without me. Calling me crazy. Ugly. Alone. But that is what I am. Alone. The only person on an island of despair, of thoughts. Of pain.

Pain in my body is so muh easier than the pain in my mind. It deafens everything else, sends a kick right through me. It would've been the easiest solution. But no, I can't. Not before this last chance. I have to talk to you, to finally find the courage to find someone nice. A friend. The word sounds weird. Friend. What is a real friend? And who am I really?

The thoughts are taking over again. I'm no master of myself anymore, I let my addictions and the people around me rule over me. Even though it hurts me over and over. And every time the pain gets stronger. I'm shaking. Itching. I'm not going to last much longer alone. But if I had you..?

I'm just imagining. I have to stop it, it only makes things worse. There's no use dreaming about the things I'll never have, I know that. But just one conversation? Is that too much to ask?

Of course it is. But it's the last string of hope that I have, and I'm clinging on to it.

In the shadow of my hand, I write a name. Just one name. Your name.

John.