Fate

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"1...,2...,3..." I counted the number of slits I put on my wrists using a blade from my mom's sewing kit. It hurt a lot but I knew what I was doing was right at that time (atleast for me). Blood started dripping everywhere trying to escape my skin. Blood on my sink, blood on my hands, blood on the floor, blood on the blaid. It never really terrified me anymore because I was used to it, used to being mentally tortured. I had bruises in my heart that no one could fix. I guess physically hurting myself maybe did kind of remove all the attention from all that was happening in the outside world.

But this wasnt where the story started. It started back in 7th grade...

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⏰ Last updated: Jan 26, 2015 ⏰

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