A/N: This is something that sprung out of my twisted little mind the other day in Classical and Contemporary Literature. It may be a bit slow in coming as I am writing two other stories under two different pen names, but it should be quick enough.

This is in first person because I do my best "darker" works in that format. I hope it's not too irritating. The sentences are also a bit harsher and shorter than I normally write, but that's how I think when I get depressed, so that is how the story flows.

One note - this is not a biography, or even self-insertion. Just a twisted little story. I think it only deserves the R rating, but if you beg to differ, please let me know.

My rule is that as long as I am getting reviews, then I shall keep posting. Got it? Good. Now, read and enjoy! Or not, in which case feel free to flame.

Chance Encounter - Twisted Fate

by Darker Moon

I wandered blindly through the woods, not caring where the heck I was going, hot tears streaming down my face. I was scared, full of hatred, and tired. All my life, my greatest wish had been to disappear, and I was about to take matters into my own hands, and disappear.

Completely.

Forever and ever, amen.

I carried with me a knapsack, filled with safeguards for almost every contingency. I had a broken mirror, a new bottle of pain pills, and perhaps most importantly, a first aid kit in case I changed my mind at the last minute. There were other things in there, but mostly frivolities that I hadn't felt like leaving with my family.

I reached a clearing in the woods, sat down, and didn't hesitate to pull out a shard of the mirror. I caught a glimpse of my tear-stained reflection as I-

But wait - I should probably introduce myself before I continue, right? Well, my name is Amy Elizabeth Irwin. I am twenty-six years old, born in Tennessee, and I work as the downtown history museum curator in Chattanooga. Inconspicuous enough? Not for me.

For a bit of darker family history, my mother was abusive. No one knew - no one would believe me, not even my father. I don't bruise very easily and I heal even quicker, so it was almost impossible to prove to even my friends. She was so careful. To the public eye, the Irwins were the perfect family: comparatively young parents with a single daughter. I was the family black sheep: I was smart, great at test taking, but I had no motivation. Nothing really mattered to me. I had been taught all my life that I was worthless, and that I was my mother's one mistake, and I believed it.

Obviously, this was not a very conducive environment. I moved to a friend's house when I turned eighteen, and avoided my parents at all costs. One could even go as far to say that I hated them: my mother for what she did to me, and my father for not seeing. This was the main reason my one goal in life was to disappear.

If I hated my parents, then I abhorred myself even more. The one thing I longed for most as a teenager was death, but I was slightly religious, and therefore afraid to take my fate into my own hands. At least, that was the excuse I gave myself - fear of the hereafter. But in reality, I was punishing myself. I knew that for me, death would be release, and I was determined not to reward myself if I could help it. I was practicing sadomasochism before I even knew what the word meant.

As soon as I met a real sadomasochist, I began following in her footsteps. I started off with simple things - scratching myself with a pushpin - and worked my way up to build a tolerance to pain. Yes, I still felt it, but it no longer incapacitated me. Soon, those material items were my only friends.

Once again, I kept up the charade of innocence. Any of my co-workers would gladly tell you what an agreeable person I am, and easy to work with. This was partly because I cared more for others than for myself. At any moment, no matter what, another life meant worlds more than my own.

Then, this summer, my parents invited me to come on a vacation to England with them. I would have refused, but I was to have my own hotel room and schedule. I went gladly, remembering my idolization of the United Kingdom as a child. When our trip began to draw to a close, my mother had evoked so many horrible memories that I didn't want to go home. I had a new resolve, and after careful planning, I set off on my own.

Which led me to that clearing in the woods of Northern England. I sat down in the middle of the clearing, and pulled out the sharp shard. I did not slash my wrists yet, as I had planned to do. Instead, I gave into my damned masochistic impulses and tore into the soft flesh of my inside forearm once…twice…three times. Straight, parallel slashes, strangely resembling claw marks.

This I did not do in order to move me on in my journey to the intangible, but for the morbid pleasure of seeing the pale skin give way under the sharp edge of the knife; to see the dark red liquid now streaming down my arm. A hideous vision - one that my twisted mind cherished.

Suddenly, in the red-stained reflection of the mirror, I saw something that shocked me. The body of a man, lying facedown in the nearby brush.