What the fuck am I here for? I don't belong here. I don't even want to be here. I give up. I'm quitting. I ran out to the door to the road. I sat there and sat there. Where were the cars? Let me get hit. I don't care anymore. I finally seen headlights. There was a car coming closer to me. This was it. I was going to get hit. But the car slowed, then swerved around me. Why was I wasting my time like this? I decided the hell with it. I pulled the Tiffany box out of my pocket, then opened it to find my blade. I grabbed it and slowly began to cut away at my wrists. Up and down my arms, then back to my wrists again. I could feel my body slowly dying. I loved the feeling. Death. This is what it was like, and I was enjoying every second of it. My family crossed my mind for a split second, and I then realized I didn't leave a note. So I took my finger, and ran it across the blood pouring out of my wrist. I then wrote on the road with my blood. I apologized to my family for being an outcast. And for being so fucked up. And finally, after writing my confessions in blood, I layed down, and I died.
