The Blog I'll Never Write (Completed)

Prologue

I am now in my bathroom, all naked and feeling cold. My mascara is all over my face. I know I look terrible, I am afraid to look in the mirror. I'm crying too much inside this bathtub with a lot of lavender scented candles in the side all lighted up. I am now thinking of two ways how to kill myself. 

Should I do it like Hannah from "Thirteen Reasons Why" the book where she used a pill, crappy tons of it. Or kill myself in a much more brutal way like she did on the show, where she used a blade and cut herself in both of her wrist.

All ways would work the same; the only difference is that the other way is much cleaner than the other one that'll leave stains of blood all over the place. But that was just a thought, I am afraid to kill myself. 

I don't need to kill myself, because after all I am already dead. I am mentally, physically and spiritually dead. What is my purpose? Why am I even here right now? All I know is that I don't deserve to die. I don't deserve my fate.

After sometime, I decided to get off the bathtub and wore my bath robe, walked and sat at a table where there is a mirror, where I can see my imperfections, impurities and everything that felt wrong in my face and body. I can still vividly remember when somebody called me beautiful. 

The only time when it felt true, when he told me perfect in his eyes, when he told me that I am already beautiful and I don't need to change any of it. He accepted me, he accepted me for what I truly am. Only then I knew everything was real, he is real, we were both real. But now looking at myself in this mirror, all I can say is that he was wrong.

 I am not beautiful, that is what everybody except him thinks and that is what I see, that I am not beautiful. He had seen me perfect but just like what I can see and what everybody can see, I know I'm not.

Why am I living in this kind of misery? When I was just a kid then, who doesn't want to involve myself in this kind of society, this popularity. Sometimes, I question myself why, why did I even have met him, the person who made me feel as if we were fated to have each other. Why did I even have met you, Zachary Michael Thompson, why?