This is the end.
    I haven't seen the light shine through here in way to damn long and I just can't be blind anymore. There are shadows everywhere, my own screaming ringing in my ears. Each word I hear from those who proclaim their love for me is another cut on my heart and before to much time passes between, I make sure to give myself another one elsewhere.
    When I feel it slicing through me, I can breathe again, even if it's only for a little while. My eyes watch the ruby droplets sliding down my arm for as long as they can before I have to close them and force myself to see you. I'll never hear the end of it if I get blood on the rug. As if there aren't more important things in this life than a fucking rug.
    I can sit here on my bedroom floor staring the knife down all god damn night, but what good would that do? This is really the end of my patience. Dad always told me God would come to me in my time of need, but if that's true, then where the fuck is he now? Come on, Lord, I dare you to send me an angel. Dad can't look at me so why should God be any different? His angels wouldn't be able to look at me either.
    The crying always has to come before the cut. I wish it would end so I can move on, but the tears are surprisingly strong tonight. Each one is immediately followed by another, streaming in thick rivulets, but I can't stem them. Is it because this is the last time I'll do this? I pull my sleeve down over the scars that mark other nights like these to wipe them away, but their persistence leaves my effort futile. How many times have I done this? How many times have I just accepted lies from everyone, especially him?
    The people not lying to me are wasting their love on me. I'm not worth their time to waste their precious love on. They have to be the angels I've heard about because they're the only ones who can look at me; I mean really look at me. I don't know if they can see me the way I do; the real way, but I have to assume they don't because they still love me. I'll be doing them a favor by leaving them. They really believe I'm good enough to be loved and don't suspect at all that I'm draining them of their light.
    I miss the light. I haven't seen it in such a long time and when I think of it, I can feel my heart shattering. After so long in the blackness, I can't even be sure I would know what the light was like. I don't expect I'll ever see it again. There used to be a time I never saw shadows taunting me or the slice of silver beckoning me. Crimson was not the only color I lived for. Crimson is the only color I die for.
    I look down at the knife again and my hand tightens around the handle. Why waste time in a cut? I'm so ready for the end that I could fucking stab the thing right into my heart. No no no, if this is the way this is going to end, I'm going to watch it happen. I'm going to slip away from everything and everyone who wishes I was never born and I'm going to know it.
    I can hear you telling me, “You'll never do it. You're such a bitch. Have you ever loved me? I wish you would do it.” I always loved you, but the darkness and the screaming warped my heart a long time ago. It's hard to use it for good things like loving. You want me to do this. You want me to end my life and go away, to be swallowed into the darkness completely. You think I won't?
    This is the end.
    I'd do anything for you.

This is my first attempt at short story writing and I'm pretty sure I failed. I don't think it's long enough to qualify as a short stroy, more like obscenely long poetry, but I felt like adding anything more to it would take away from the emotion behind it. But really, poetry is still a form of storytelling.