Most people write suicide notes, addressed to their family.
They write these notes to explain themselves.
I'm writing this for the same reason.
But I'm writing a story, and it's addressed to the world.
I'm sitting here on the cold floor, holding a blade.
The coldness of the floor reflects the world, all of which is cold, emotionless, heartless.
Before I pull the blade down my arm, I'll write this.
The world deserves to know what it made me do.
Worthless.
That is what they told me I was.
Worthless. I probably am, considering that nobody is going to burst through the door, and make me put this knife down.
You could probably turn this into a twisted love story if you wanted to.
How I loved the pureness in those grey eyes of his.
How time after time he pushed me away.
But if only you knew that the love that I felt for him was returned.
He did love me.
He spat out the words three weeks ago, but that's not why I'm here.
Romance is what is worthless.
I wasted half my life chasing after something that I had the whole time.
Nobody needs that, nobody needs to waste their time.
There's much better things you could be doing.
This isn't my sappy love story, it's his.
He is the one that created the drama.
True, he was the one that "played it cool".
He was the one that was too cool to look twice at me.
But he loved me, and I believe that.
Even now, I believe that.
It wasn't him that caused me to do this.
Well, maybe he was a factor.
I decided it was pointless to try to be someone in this harsh world, because everyone is out to get you.
Everyone exists just to push everyone else down.
My outlook is bleak, I know I'm pessimistic.
But don't try to deny that how ever many years, we will all end up like me.
Dead.
I was dead a long time ago.
Long before I hit the ground, as they say.
But now I'm at rock bottom.
And just the thought that I'm still alive is not enough to keep me going.
I heard someone say that people who commit suicide usually change their mind halfway.
But it's too late.
I'm not going to change my mind.
I heard someone say that depression is always curable.
Yeah, I'm depressed.
But I'm definetely not curable.
What I have is not a disease.
It's the edge of a cliff, your hand clutching desperately at the rocks.
The merciless stone ripping through the skin on your palm.
I'm not sick.
The scars on my arm are not my medicine.
They keep me alive, but they are not a cure.
Because every time the cold blade touches my skin, I feel something.
The burning sensation, tingling.
Making me feel like I have some amount of worth.
Making me feel what I felt when I looked into those grey eyes of his.
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