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This content has graphic, disturbing content that will not only disturb, but open a door to what is often not described. If you are sensitive to self mutilation, bullying, or philosophical theories that may question your very foundational understanding of existence, please do not read on. If you are under the age of 13, please do not read on. Please do not try to re-enact anything… basically, this is a conceptual story.

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You have been warned

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It was never easy being the odd kid, the one everyone criticized. My grades had always excelled, easily surpassing most of my peers. Of course, this may be a stretch, as I only did well on testing. I found homework to be tedious, and with the constant bombardment of harassment from my "classmates", I couldn't bring myself to sit through the vile assignments that meant nothing more to me than ants. In fact, at least I tried not to step on ants. I would gladly incinerate homework, as well as my "classmates".

Walking down the school's math hallway, I kept my head low as I slumped my backpack over one shoulder. The smell of axe filled my nostrils as I continued to walk down the fluorescent-lit corridor. Being a Sophomore in highschool, it was lovely to be greeted by such scents (of course, this is blatant sarcasm).

"Hey faggot," his voice was slightly deep, but I could hear the wavering of tones in his statement. I continued to walk, ignoring his insult as I drew near my algebra 2 classroom. Suddenly, from behind, I felt his hands shove me. Without proper preparation or any means of balance, I easily fell to the floor, stopping my fall with my forearms. A slight pain shot through my arms as they absorbed the weight of the impact, but I quickly rose to my feet again before he could advance any further.

"Don't you have something better to do?" I stood my ground, attempting to make my voice sound assertive. All he did was sneer, and tried to push me out of the way to get to class. I was ready this time. Holding my ground, I made sure not to let him budge me from my position. That is, until I felt a sharp pain in my stomach from a strong blow, and as I held my belly with one hand, wincing slightly, he spat in my face.

There was nothing to do. Instigating a full blown fight would only get myself blamed, and reporting it would do no good. I backed off in defeat, and turned the opposite direction of my class. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I tried to keep hidden in between the crowds of students. My life had slowly become an experience of dreadful occurrences after pissing off Mike, who was one of the most famous basketball players on our high school's team. After that one event of defiance, I had become a glorified target, and fuck was it horrid.

Coming home with hidden bruises and depressed thoughts was no life to live, but it was the fate I was dealt. Infact, I had come to be my worst enemy. My self worth was next to none, and reason to live was equivalent to my self worth. It was a daily battle to say "I'm fine" when people asked how I was. I knew there was to be no sympathy from telling the truth, as my own friends would soon shut me out whenever I told them I wasn't in a bubbly mood.

On this particular night, I had locked myself in my mother's bathroom. The tile floor was cold, but I sat on it anyways, pondering over my decisions as the shower ran lightly. I liked to pretend I was taking a shower to lower suspicion, and make it easier to conceal what I was truly doing. My father had left us two years prior to all of these events had begun to happen, and back then I was… happier.

"Ryan," I could hear my mother's annoying voice from outside the door ,"what are you doing in the bathroom?"

Staring at my feet, I pictured what it would feel like to not be myself. My fantasy world slowly grew in my mind as I scratched at my pale white skin and fidgeted in my dull-colored clothes to attempt reaching a higher comfort level. How would it feel to escape into an existence that was not judged upon your drive to do such repetitive actions? Life was nothing but a series of monotonous occurrences to me. Sleep, eat, shit, "learn", work, pay, and so forth. In the end we all died and decomposed in a similar manner. We all were equal in death, and it was pointless to try to achieve greatness when your corpse was no different than Ted Bundy's corpse, whose grave was adjacent to your own.

"Ryan," her voice was annoyingly nasally, and it woke me from my daydreams, "what are you doing?"

"Mom!" angered that she interrupted my thoughts, I replied angrily "I'm in the shower!"

I could hear her audibly sigh, followed by her foot steps that drifted off down the hallway. Shortly after, I heard her door slam. I payed no mind to her obvious display of distaste, and continued my fantasy. Except now, I planned to dig deeper. Running my hands through my black hair, I slicked it backwards in a nervous manner. Afterwards, I looked around the room as if to check for prying eyes.

Shifting my gaze to the razor on the rim of the bathtub now, I slid my back against the back of the tub and took out a pair of safety scissors from my pocket. The blade of the scissors was stained with dried blood, but they would serve their purpose. Tenderly, I picked up the razor and cut away at the plastic handle and guard to reveal the bare razor. Taking out one of the four blades, I examined the length of the shining metal. It was new, and light as a feather. Drawing in a deep breath, I took the metal with my right hand and slid the two inch blade across my index finger of my left hand. The sharp pain from the beginning cut made me quicken the remainder of the action, slicing deeper into the skin of my finger. As I pulled the blade away, I could already see the blood pooling, and decided to lick my crimson-stained finger. The touch of tongue to wound only worsened the sting, but I used that pain as an escape.

Now tracing the blunt side of the blade against the soft flesh of my forearm, I could feel the bumps of previous scars. I turned my forearm over to reveal the many white marks that patterned the paler side of my arm. Making a vertical cut along the middle of the two tendons of my wrist, I bit my lip in sheer pain and ecstasy. The feeling of release overflowed my body, and I quickly sighed, laying my head against the cold rim of the bathtub. Smiling, the pain begin to cease for a moment as I calmly enjoyed the relieving action of self mutilation.

I could feel the air around me begin to shift. It felt as if the very essence of heat, of loving relaxation, had vanished from my body and everything surrounding myself. Looking down at my wrist, I could feel that heat leaving my body as the crimson red substance slowly drained out of my incision in rhythm with my heart beat. Glancing at the pale underside of my forearm, I could now see my previous scars, and as I averted my gaze back to my newest addition, I realized the reality of the situation. My heartbeat raced as I tried to stand up, using my injured wrist to help lift myself off from the ground, and in the process of this stupid action, I fell face first into the marble countertop of the bathroom sink. Pain shot through my forehead as I felt a similar warmth great my face. With a shaking hand, I touched my good hand to my forehead, as as I pulled away my fingers to see the blood, I began to shake.

It wasn't a normal shiver, but more of a distraught convulsion. My whole body trembled as I rolled over onto my back, curling in a ball as my life essence began to fade. Everything was increasingly becoming colder, and the only warmth was the substance now streaming from my two wounds. I couldn't feel the pain anymore. That was good, right?

Darkness curled around my peripherals as my vision began to blur. I accepted this, as I was quite tired. I could wake up to these problems in the morning and… wait. There won't be a tomorrow if…

The abyss consumed my vision, and shortly after, my thoughts drifted away.