Hi everyone. This is a random, morbid little thing that I wrote while in the car. I hope the rating's OK, even though I don't really understand it. I mean, I'm 13, so according to this rating I can only just read my own fic...

But I'm not sure if this should be a K, a T, an M or whatever. I've done it as T, but if anyone thinks that it shouldn't be, stick it in a review and I'll change it.

Pain.

That's what I feel.

Not from the wounds I suffered – those have long since healed, leaving ugly red scars – but pain from a deeper place, white-hot nails driving one by one into my rapidly thawing heart.

And I need it to stop.

I need it to go away.

I remember this pain, though. I thought that it had gone forever. I thought that I had forgotten it. I swore to myself, swore on the day I killed my foster parents, my half-brothers. Barely 15, covered from head to toe in the blood of the last people to have caused me this pain, I promised. Never again.

But I broke that oath. I lied. And I hate it.

I hate her.

So I pick up my knife. If I can't make the pain stop, I'll overpower it. Drown it out.

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I watch the redness coat my arms, seeping from the fresh grooves in my skin, but it does nothing. My heart hurts more than anything that I could inflict upon myself.

I scream, in rage and agony, driving the crimson-stained blade into the white walls, along the porcelain of the bath. I need this to stop. Now!

Then I know how. I feel the smile tugging at my lips as I bandage my arms and polish the knife. I pass my blood-covered hands over my face and through my hair, letting the dark liquid stain my pale skin. The hunt is on. I slip out of the door and onto the dark streets, slinking cat-like through the shadows. I know my destination well.

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I enter her room. Slowly, I approach her bed, gazing at her sleeping face. She is beautiful. I feel the now-familiar tightening in my chest.

I channel this feeling and turn it into anger as I raise my knife, blade sparkling in the moonlight that filters through her curtainless windows.

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The red mist lifts, and I step back, surveying my work.

My heart thaws completely, then shatters into a million tiny pieces.

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I lift her limp body into my arms. My bandages have come off, and I'm bleeding from various places. She must have fought back, but I can't remember.

I turn her mutilated face towards me, her head lolling uselessly.

She is still beautiful.

I bend over her, feeling tears prickling at my eyelids.

And then, for the first time in almost twenty years, I cry.

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Sirens.

I hear them in the distance, but coming closer.

Still sobbing, I raise my bloodstained knife to my throat, point quivering just below my adam's apple.

The police knock and shout. I sit there, frozen, a hellish statue soaked in blood.

They begin to break down the door, as I whisper four words. The last thing that I will ever say.

"I'm so sorry, Lisa..."

I begin to touch the handle, but pause. There is something else.

"I... I love you."

A crash, from downstairs. Shouting. Trampling footsteps.

I put one hand out, palm facing me.

People running up the stairs.

I bring my palm onto the handle of the knife, driving the blade into my neck.

I love you...

Hmm. How was it? Awful? Do tell. Click the little grey/blue button. You can do it, come on! Come on, it's right there. No, not there... there. Yes. Click it, hold down shift if you have a popup blocker, and tell me. Please? I'll be your friend! I don't care, even if it's a flame!

Ok, maybe I do...

PJ