Author's Note: Hi guys! I've been having trouble continuing with the plot I had going in this story, so I've decided to mix things up a bit. This chapter takes place two months after the last chapter. The story will progress from here, with flashbacks into what we missed during those 2 months. I think this format will make the story more interesting overall... I hope you all agree! So, consider the last 4 chapters an introduction, to get to know all of the characters and the main plot of the story, which I think is depicted pretty well in this chapter.

Reviews are always appreciated!

Enjoy!

I want to do it.

I want to hurt myself. I want to hurt myself, cut into my skin and bleed and feel the pain because I know I deserve it. I'm worthless and people hate me and they're allowed to hate me because I am all the things they say I am.

This is isn't just some floozy plan. I've placed a razor on the edge of the bathtub. It's blades are glistening against the lights, calling to me.

Tears are streaming down my face, uncontrollably. I can't stop it; I can't stop the tears rolling down my face, the broken sobs, the desperate gaps for air.

My body is shaking and shivering like some possessed beast, thrashing rigidly from side to side. I move my head back and as I pull my hair. The edges are soaked in tears, and I pull them because I just know I'm all the things they say I am.

I know I want to do it.

The blades are calling to me, telling me all the things those kids at school tell me. They're telling me what I was heard at the beach and in the hallways. They're telling me I'm worthless, reminding me how everyone hates me and that I deserve to die.

The blades are glistening, calling to me.

I pick up the razor. I rip the blade out of the razor, and I get tiny cuts on my fingertips.

One of my fingers bleeds; little beads of bed liquid pop out along the tiny cut. I press down on it with my other finger, and the blood pours out. Just a little bit. I press down harder, and I can feel pain. Just a little bit.

It hurts, just like I deserve to hurt. Just like the kids say, just like the blades are telling me.

I hold the blade at the end of my bloody fingertips. I see it glisten in the lights, I hear it whisper those words into my brain.

And I lay the blade against my wrist. And I press down, and I glide it across my skin.

I do it again and again, and blood pours. I feel the pain, so much pain, and I see the blood pour. I feel the pain, and I still hear the whispers. And I press down harder, glide further, and more blood pours out.

The tears pour out almost as heavy as the blood. Still shaking, always sobbing, still gasping for air, I stop cutting when the sound of my cries drowns out the devilish whispers in my ears.

I close my eyes and I breathe. I catch my breath and feel my arm. It hurts so bad. It hurts like I've never hurt before; perhaps it's not the greatest pain I've endured, but it's by far the greatest pain I've felt. I feel it. I feel the pain, I feel what caused it, I feel what causes the pain.

I drop the blade onto the ceramic tile floors. It makes a 'pink' sound as it drops, bringing me back to reality. Or what it left of it.

I look at my arm. I see the mess of blood and cuts and the raw skin. I see the blood that dripped onto the tile. I see all the pain; the pain that was so deep and so powerful to cause this. This mess of blood and raw skin.

I look at my other hand, the hand that looks to innocent, covered in blood and shaking eerily. It didn't do it. That hand, that hand that held the weapon... It didn't to the damage. It didn't cause this immense pain, this thing that makes me sob and shake and cry and gasp and shiver even more.

It was my brain. It was my brain, and the whispers that filled it. The demeaning whispers, the whispers that made me feel hideous inside, the whispers that made me want to not live. The whispers that wanted me dead. It was them that made me do it. It was those hideous words, those awful things that made me not care at all.

The whispers told me to do it. And I did it.

And I know why. I know why I did it, I know why I did it. I know why there is the sharp pain in my arm, and why I feel like I'm dying inside. I know why I did it. I did it because I listened to the whispers.

I listened to the whispers. I did what they told me to do. I did it, and now I feel worse than I've ever felt before.

I've never felt more alone, more panic and pain and isolation. I've never felt more defeat and ruthless success and pain. I've never felt like this before. I feel how the whispers wanted me to feel. The whispers won, those whispers that lurked into my brain.

They told me to do it, but I did it. Why did I do it? I listened to the whispers. Why did I listen to the whispers? I listened because I believe them. Why do I believe them? I believed them. Because I believed them.

Because I believe them.

I tear at my hair and shake and shiver more, because I don't understand. I pull and my hair, lacing the strands with blood and making my arm hurt even more, because I don't understand. I don't understand because I have all the answers, but I don't believe them! I don't believe them, but I believe the whispers and I believe what they tell me.

I believe in them. I believe the whispers and what they tell me. I believe them when they say I'm worthless and that everyone hates me. I believe them when they tell me that nobody will ever love me. I believe them when they tell me I'm stupid. I believe them when they tell me I should die.

I believe them when they tell me I should die. I listen to them when they tell me I should die.

I listened to them when they whispered into my brain and told me I should die.

But do I really believe them?

I walk down the hall. I feel like a zombie; a shell of a human being, taking steps of no meaning. The salty liquid is still falling from my eyes, streaming down my face, creating a mask of tears. My sobs have subsided but I still shake and shiver. My arms hang down beside my body. My bloody, raw arm lays there, hitting against my body lifelessly. Blood is smeared all over my arms, my hands, my hair, my face, my legs, my clothing: everything.

Dad and Auggie are watching TV in the living room, at the end of the hall. The hall seems so long, like an endless tunnel, and they are at the end of it. I can hear the sound of the television, them shifting in their seats, their soft breathing.

I see the side of their faces now. The look to kind, so pleasant, so content. So innocent, and so unsuspecting.

I can see their eyes now, gazing at the screen. I see my father. I look at him like I've looked at him millions of times before, but I don't see the father I saw earlier today. I see him ten years ago. I see him as I did all those years ago, when I was small, when he could solve my every problem.

I see my Daddy.

A muffled and cracked version of my voice calls out his name. The tears are streaming again, the wrenching sobs are lingering back. I still shake. Dad turns around. I cannot see his expression, I can only see him.

"Daddy," the voice says. "I'm not okay."