It's 2:44 am. I'm still awake, I'm dead tired, had a long day, but cant sleep.

So here I am, up late at night, stomach in about a hundred knots razor in hand.

I should be alone, but I'm not, my best friend is in the room next to me, sleeping. I checked to make sure he was asleep before taking out my razors.

I didn't want him to know.

I hadn't cut myself yet, but I knew I would, I couldn't get this far and then not cut.

But I had a sickeningly strong desire to cut my wrists tonight.

My wrist was still healing from the last time I got that desire. About 70 little red lines mar the skin from the wrist to the elbow. None deep enough to have killed me, of course, but the fact remains… nothing feels quite as satisfying as thin, sharp pain right above a vein. Nothing so sweet as the thought that I mutilated my own wrists.

Nothing as wonderful as the fact that at anytime I could slip and end it all.

I smile grimly as I put the razor to my wrist.

I could end it now. I could slit that little blue vein and watch my life flow freely to its end. I could end this all, all these thoughts, all these nights like this. I could end my world.

But I cant.

Its not my choice, no matter how deep I were to cut I wouldn't die. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I can't die.

I've tried, and failed. There have been attempts on my life that failed.

There were too many times I could have died but didn't. Too many. I'm not lucky enough to die. I've faced that fact before, tested it to its limits. It won't work.

I just won't die.

So I take my silvery friend, the only friend I can ever count on. My friend I can control. I tell it to do something and it obeys without another word.

He will never disobey me; he will never fail or falter. He will never let me down.

He will help me destroy myself, help me make this life I cannot get away from bearable.

I drag the razor across a thin part of my wrist that isn't already scarred.

The pain is wonderful. The pure bliss is found in the sharp stinging of my skin splitting, oh so easily. I watch with pure wonder as blood starts to well up where my friend did his job best.

I've seen it so many times, but it will never stop being so refreshing.

One cut, one mark on my wrist. One more scar.

Not enough. Never enough…

I find another part of my wrist that has barely enough room to cut, but I cut it anyway, deeper then the first one.

Another free spot… deeper. Deeper, deeper, deeper.

It's wonderful. Even if at this point I'm not cutting my wrist but more closer to my elbow, its still on that soft, scar-able skin.

From my wrist to my elbow, I run my obedient little friend through any skin that doesn't have a fresh mark on it.

I love the blood; I hold my arm up in front of my face so that little rivers of red life flow freely down my arm. I watch with sadistic fascination as the blood flows down and drips off onto an already bloodstained towel.

I watch until the arm is no longer mine. I'm not even here right now. I don't know where I am, but I'm not here.

Subconsciously I know the bleeding arm is mine, but it doesn't feel right, doesn't look right. Nothing does.

Nothing here exists in moments like these.

Like I'm locked in a box, nothing seems real, I get like this a lot. An awful lot actually, but when I do things like this it just gets stronger.

Time seems to slow, or disappear completely, everything does. My vision is blurry, well, its different, I don't think that there is a word for what is looked like. Like I'm looking at this world through glass, it's clear but… not really… there.

And at times like these nothing exists expect my thoughts and the arm. I focus on the bleeding arm to the point where nothing else is there, everything around it is black.

I can't feel anything. Its like a dream where, you can almost believe that what you see is real, but it isn't. And you know it isn't, but you cant notice that now.

All I'm experiencing right now is a dream, a movie about a poor fucked up boy.

Its wonderful is the frighteningness of it all. How I can feel so distinctly disconnected from myself. I love it.

I love the blood that isn't mine rolling freely off the arm that isn't mine.

Love the pain I inflicted on this poor helpless boy.

I love how much I make him suffer. I love it all.

This is what I live for.

Yes, this moment right here, this is what makes this world so bearable in times when all I wish for is the end of everything.

I could sit here for hours like this, completely blank. I could stay like this forever but I never can. I always get dragged back…

I can tell that the wounds are starting to stop their flow.

I'm suddenly starting to feel more connected to this world.

I sigh heavily and pick up the towel. I find a spot that is remotely dry and wipe the blood away from the cuts. They were still bleeding but only slightly, some had already stopped. I quickly counted the freshest of the cuts.

Call it a sick sort of pride, but the more cuts the more pleasure I get out of the whole ordeal.

56.

Damn… if only my arms were longer. It could have been more.

Looking closer at my arm I can tell I had cut over some older scars, and even overlapped some fresher ones.

Love it.

Then my whole world sort of flipped along with my stomach and my heart Someone knocked on my door.

"Duo….?" Quatre's soft voice came from the other side of the door.

Fuck.