Run Out of Emotion

Six.

*Devin's POV*

Great. I just forced a random girl to open up about her whole life. Geez, I'm a dick.

She seemed so relieved when I left, she didn't even say bye. Whatever, I don't know why I even thought she would want to talk to me. Why did I ask for her number? How cringy.

Do you know what? I wouldn't even care if I died right now. If I just 'accidently' fell off a cliff, or slit my wrists, I think it would be a good thing.

Collapsing inside my messy apartment, I threw the plastic bags on the floor and walked into my bedroom. I rifled around in the drawers beside my bed, and brought out a pencil sharpener. Carefully, I unscrewed the blade and threw the plastic to one side.

Does anyone remember when pencil sharpeners were just to sharpen pencils?

Slowly, I plunged the blade into my arm, and dragged it along. The pain striked up my arm like a bullet. Blood trickled down my pale arm and I groaned slightly. For some reason, pain was a complete stress reliever.

I sighed with relief and leaned against the back of my bed, thinking quietly.

I'd always been a hopeless romantic. Dreaming of love, soul mates and friendship. Shut up. Don't judge me. No one had ever slept in this bed, and no one probably will. No one will ever love me. But that's okay.

Hopefully I won't be alive for much longer. I know that sounds deep, but I really want to die. I just don't want to be happy anymore.

The blade sank in deeper, and I cried out in pain. Fuck, I'd cut too deep. It had happened before, but this time it hurt more and more. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't cry. I was too numb.

My eyelids started to droop and I felt like falling asleep. Lethargically, I placed the small, pencil sharpener blade on my bedside table. Laying my head on the pillow, I coughed slightly.

Lately, I had been getting weak and even more depressed. I felt numb and I couldn't express any emotion. It was like I had hit rock bottom. Nothing could get any worse.

Maybe that was a good thing. Hm, I hadn't had a good thought in a while. Sighing, I looked down at my bleeding arms and numbly stared at the ceiling.

It only takes one cut to start an addiction and, boy, was I addicted.

The only time I met someone who understood what I go through I fucked it up. Now she probably thinks I'm a weirdo-creep. Maybe I am.