Prologue


All she wants to do is get rid of this hell
When all she's got to do is stop kidding herself

I think that that the goth movement should be abolished, for the simple reason that they spread the rumor that cutting – slashing wrists – slitting veins – whatever your preferred name – is made simpler by using a razor blade.

Boy, are they ever wrong.

I hold the razor to my wrist and shakily, for the hundredth time, try to cut through my skin. When it doesn't yield, I want to just jump off the Astronomy Tower and be done with it; instead, I draw the blade over my skin again, hoping to achieve the calm that comes with the adrenaline that comes with the loss of blood. I've been hoping that for the past 15 minutes.

I want to live. I don't want to die. All I want to do is calm down. Calm…a foreign concept to me. I knew it once, long ago. Now – it evades me.

"Dam.n cheap razors," I mutter. I let the hand with the razor fall to my side.

Goths aren't idiots. They know what they're doing (unlike me). The reason that razor blades work for them is because they [iwant[/i to harm themselves. Me? I'm not strong enough. I don't have enough willpower. I am too [iweak[/i.

I hate being weak.

The hand with the razor springs to life. The razor is applied to the wrist; the hand closes into a fist, outlining the veins; the razor presses down; it is dragged across the vein –

The river opens. The vein is cut; my goal is achieved. I wake out of my trance-like stupor, staring at the gush of blood trailing down my arm. A long-lost feeling washes over me, and I nearly weep with relief; I am calm.

As I gaze at the flowing blood, thoughts flit through my head. Traitorous thoughts. About times forgotten, times when I was happy and carefree (carefree…what is that?), when I had people to talk to, people who could calm me down. A time when I could fend for myself, help myself without harming myself. A time when I could feel.

Those feelings are what brought me to this, this search for calm.

I lean my head back against the door of the bathroom stall. [iNow that you've reached your goal, what are you going to do?[/i a hidden voice taunted me. [iYou can't bring her back. You can't fix the past.[/i

[iShut up,[/i I instructed the voice calmly (calm…I am calm). [iEverything's going to be alright now.[/i

The blood continues to gush silently down my arm. As the calmness ebbs away, my panic grows – but so does the feeling of weakness, helplessness.

My last though before I slip into unconsciousness is – where am I running to?

And why?

She can only fool herself for so long –

I'm too weak to face me