I pulled myself up. Inhaling greedily, trying to gobble the air around. I grabbed the shank, which I hid under my pillow, with my trembling hands and slowly penetrate the edge on my skin, grimacing from pain in the process.
Pain. I hate and love it at the same time.
I heave a sigh of relief as I felt red, hot liquid flow from the freshly opened wound. This was my lifeline.
As long as I feel pain that means I'm awake, and as long as I'm awake then that means...
I cringed at the train of my own thoughts. I blankly stared at my left arm and gently stroked the still-visible scars, that was left from the previous wound that I inflicted myself, with my finger.
I stifled a cry. I've been sleep-deprived for god knows how long. What I wouldn't give for a good night's sleep. What is happening to me?
My dreams.
It's becoming more and more real each night; it's haunting me. It won't stop unless it gets what it wants.
And I'm slowly losing my sanity.
