Darkness consumes me. I cannot see anything, not even the hand that I hover in front of my face. I put my hand down to my side, and sit up, reaching for the drawer beside me. I open it, and search through its contents blindly, in search of the razor blade I know lay hidden within its depths. Once I find the blade, I roll up the sleeve of my jacket, exposing my arm that is already riddled with cuts. I place the cool blade against my over heated skin, and apply a slight pressure. I push harder, and slowly draw the blade through my skin, which gives under the blades sharp edge.

My head feel light, and the world starts to spin, but I continue until the blade slips off the edge of my arm. I walk to my window, and raise the blind, letting the moon light shine on my left forearm. I stare at the blood beading there; watch it as it dribbles off the side of my arm. My arm bleeds black blood onto the floor. I picture my heart, shriveled and black and beating slowly in my chest. I imagine the tissue is stiff, my heart working twice as hard as the average heart to pulsate.

My eyes sting, but I do not cry. I stopped crying long ago. It is nights like these that I wish I could cry again. Depression sits heavily in my chest, thudding against my ribcage with every beat of my heart. I feel alone in the world. I move to get a towel, sopping up the blood on my arm, before I place the blade back into its hiding place, and crawl into bed. My pickled heart aches, as it pumps black blood through my dark veins. I fall asleep to the sound of silence, my only comfort being my steadily beating heart. I dream of suicide.