Finishing off your fifth glass, choking on the burn only a little, your body is numb. I'm ready. You think to yourself. It's time. You dizzily get up, the world spinning around you, pausing for a moment to regain your vision. Slowly you make your way to your dresser, grasping anything from your bedframe to a small chair in the corner for balance. Finally. You thought, reaching the dresser seemed to take forever. Your mind is getting fuzzier. Shit I need to do this now. You think through the fuzz. Shakily you rummage through the slightly ajar drawer, searching, until you feel a hot sensation on your left index finger, there it is. You pull the sharp, now bloodied blade out of the drawer and stumble back to the bed. You sit down and smile, looking at the sharp, razor like blade in your hand. It's the blade your father left you after he killed himself. One of the only things your stupid abusive mother would let you keep. Gently, you glide your finger over the edge, drawing blood as you go. Using the blood, you write on a piece of paper next to you, the words, I'm NOT sorry, and bring the knife to your face, the shape tip piercing the flesh just under your right ear. Then slowly, you press harder and glide it across your skin, ending at your left ear. A sheet of warmth envelops you as reality begins to waver, your breath is cut short and you begin to choke, only gurgling as you slowly drown in your own blood, the only thing you think of is it's finally all over..
