How To Fix Everything

I'm tired and hungry, but I don't want to move from this spot. It's warm here, but I'm all alone. I'm not safe with myself; I can't save me from the voices in my head. The ones that repeat all my mistakes, the ones that prey upon my insecurities. The paranoia is building up inside of me, and it escapes in the form of tears. Little by little, sliding down the sides of my face. Into the black strands, already damp with salty water. All of my fears, all the things I never wanted to happen, they all became real. I'm a failure; I'm a freak; I'm the last thing you really need. I can't support myself, much less anyone else.
I'm trying the best that I can, but it's not easy. Taking big steps,  doing all that I can. It's never quite enough, though. The only thing that helps is seeing blood seep from tan skin; paled by months spent indoors. Watching that scarlet liquid makes me feel alive; makes me feel worth something.
Look there, another one! I don't even remember making those. What are those letters on my ankle?
No. I don't want to look upon them. I'll only think of....
It's already too late, and I feel sobs welling up in my chest, causing my shoulders to quiver and shake. I feel outside myself,  and pain is the only thing that brings me back to my body. I vaguely wonder how much pressure it would take to snap my ribs and deflate the air from both of my lungs. I'd rather bleed out or snap my neck. Or even just fall asleep and never awaken, my muscles all relaxing until....
Until what?
Until they just slow to a stop.
My heart loses it's beat, my mind no longer plagues me with nightmares and horrors beyond belief, even in my waking hours. I'd like that.
To lie upon my bed and sleep forever?
Yes.
Exactly.
No, it's not really sleep.
That's called death, isn't it?
Certainly is. What a relief it would be to never have to feel anything ever again. What a weight off my shoulders to finally rest in peace, to ease the aching in my chest and the thoughts racing through my mind.
Ending my life at 14 years would be easy.
Simple.
Better than falling asleep.
Better than feeling alive again.
Better than not being alone ever.
10 pills is all it would take, maybe less.
But think of all the things you'll never get to do again, and things you'll never get to experience!
Like what?
I've done all there is to do, really. I've done illegal drugs, I've gotten drunk, I've had sex, I've taken all the risks I can.
Where has it gotten me?
In a me-sized pit of misery, dug by everyone who's ever, or never, cared about me. Dug by my parents, my friends, my lovers, and my enemies. Most importantly, dug by myself.
I put myself in this position, and no matter how hard I try, I can't pull myself out.
So what then?
We'll make this deep, dark hole of despair our grave. That's what. Our final resting place.
Sounds lovely.
Sounds peaceful.
Sounds....
Exactly.
Such appealing notions my mind offers me. Such lovely ideals, such sweet fantasies. Rest. Peace. A dreamless sleep that will last the rest of eternity.
What about reincarnation?
I've done good things in my lifetime. I've been a good person, I've loved many and lost even more. My intentions are pure, and I've had more than my fair share of misery.
So, if I'm reborn, it'll be a new start.
So, if I'm reborn, it'll be a clean slate.
Sounds nice.
A chance at a new life?
But what if it all turns out the same?
What if this pain, this misery, is simply the fate of my soul?
I suppose that's always possible.
Does it really matter?
Not really.
I won't even remember my past life. I won't recall all the things that've been done to me. All the mistakes I've made.
But what about the ones I'd leave behind?
Mother?
Brothers?
Sisters?
They'll be just fine. I'm hardly in their lives anyway. I stay down in my bedroom all the time, only leaving a few times per day. I'm isolated here. Might as well be gone.
Contemplating.
Pondering.
Questioning.
Will this ever be enough?
Will I ever make my decision?
I don't think so.
So I'll turn to the only things that help me.
Hello, little razorblade.
Hello, steaming hot bath.
Hello, bottle of painkillers.
Will you help me today? Will you make me feel better, at least for a little while?
They never answer, but I use them anyway, and they keep their silent promise. I watch as the water swirls from red to pink, the slight tint making interesting colors against my yellow-brown skin.
I wonder how much I can make myself bleed with only one blade. They dull quickly, but I never dispose of them. No. I keep every single one, so that I can look back at it. So that I can remember the things that I've done.
I won't lie, as I lay back in the bathtub, my hair now becoming wet all over. I do enjoy this. It makes me feel better; It's something I can always count on. Razorblades can't love you back, but that's okay. It shows me that it cares by carving into my skin, by drawing the metallic, salty red liquid. They're not like people, either. There are plenty of sharp razorblades in the world, and when one dulls you can just throw it away and get a new one. They never leave you, and they only hurt you when you let them
So I wait until the bleeding stops, and return to my bedroom. I find myself once again curled up in my bed, the comforter covering my still-shaking body. Tears no longer plague my eyes, and I can finally rest. At least for a little while.
And it starts again.