Fafr's Epic Random Book

i met him after i hurt.

Well, uh...

Hope this doesn't suck.

I've been trying to make my random writings better because I suck at them.

Enjoy at your own risk.

I press the backspace as hard as I can.

Stupid stupid stupid...

I groan and slam my head on the keyboard, resulting in various gibberish words popping up on the screen.

Why couldn't I ever write a good story?

I hate my life.

I shut off my laptop, set it on my nightstand, and snuggle under my covers. I stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Wasn't that some saying from the poster on the ceiling in The Static Speaks My Name? The game I had watched Markiplier play.

The one where you kill yourself.

I sit up slowly in the darkness. I had been thinking about the story I had been trying to write. I read it tonight, and it sounded so pathetic, so low quality. I had been confident in my writing before - why did everything have to change now?

I felt the frustration bubbling up inside of me. Tears start to make their way down my cheeks.

Why are you crying? It's just your dream. Your dream doesn't matter.

I manage to stop, but when I roll onto my side and see my laptop I just start all over again, this time sobbing softly.

Shut up, you stupid girl!

I slowly sit up once more and slide out of bed. I had spent the majority of the day in the pool, and so my shaking legs were barely able to get me to the bathroom.

The next thing I know, I'm holding a bloody pair of scissors above a bloody thigh. It's on my shorts. On my tank top. My arms. Running down my leg, dripping onto the floor.

By now I'm sobbing so hard I have to stop to throw up in the toilet.

Is this really what you want?

To cry yourself sick because you couldn't write a stupid, insignificant story?

"Shut up!" I yell. I pull myself up to stare at my reflection in the mirror. A puffy red face, streaked with tears, bloodshot eyes, runny nose. My leg is throbbing. A ragged slash.

I hope it doesn't scar.

I throw the scissors on the counter, next to the sink. Turning on the faucet, I wait till it's ice cold, and then climb up on the counter and shove my bleeding thigh underneath. Soon enough, I can't feel anything. All the blood is gone. The cells have closed themselves together. It's not completely healed, and the bleeding hasn't stopped, but it's better now.

I turn the faucet off with shaking hands and limp back to my bedroom. I crawl under the covers. I'll have to go to the laundry room in the apartment building early in the morning, so no one sees the bloody clothes and bloody sheets.

But I already knew they were scared of me. Or maybe sympathetic. Either way, they had heard my screams and cries through the thin walls. And so they avoided me when I did come out.

They figured it wasn't long before I was gone.

---

The next morning, I decide to be productive. That was my strategy. If I busied myself with other things, I eventually forgot about it.

I did an entire cleaning of the living room. Then my bathroom. Then my bedroom. This entire process only took about twenty minutes, as I cleaned so often, I had next to nothing to do.

I was terrified of cleaning the bathroom. I knew I would break down again, and...yes, I was already tearing up.

I moved away, into the bedroom. I changed into black leggings, wincing as it came over my thigh, and simply covered my black camisole with an old gray sweatshirt. I messed with my hair a bit, and then walked outside.

My legs led me to the park. I sat down on a bench, staring off into space.

I hear a small sound from next to me. I turn to see a very attractive boy with pale skin. He wears gray jeans and a gray sweatshirt, darker than mine. His adorably shaggy hair looks black, but as I see him turn his head to look at me, and it catches the sunlight, I see that it is actually a dark gray. Hmm. His eyes are a gorgeous gray, almost like the rest of his body - a color palette.

"Hello." He says. He sounds very formal, and - is that a British accent?! Oh my gosh. He was even hotter than I previously thought.

"Hi."

"My name is Fell, what is yours?"