“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say.
I raise the knife to my neck. It’s cold metal reflects the coldhearted nature of everyone in my life and the negative thoughts in my mind. The words they’d say to me like “You’re a failure!” replay in my mind.
The door creaks open. I don’t look up from my position. I’m crouched in a ball on the cold floor, leaning against the toilet. He walks in and watches me cry. The tears keep pouring down my cheeks despite his presence.
“Don’t do it! Please don’t do it!” he cries.
“Why shouldn’t I?” I scream.
My voice cracks and I stare at my refection in the shiny metal of the knife. I see chapped lips with cuts, messy brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and mascara running down my cheeks. We are in painful silence for a few seconds.
“I’m not good enough for you, am I? I’m ugly and too skinny. I don’t deserve to be with you and I don’t deserve to be here. Everyone deserves better than me. I’m just a burden to you. To everyone,” I said.
He looks down at me and stares, his hazel eyes meet my own.
“Please don’t kill yourself. I…I love you.”
I’m still crying hysterically, and I shake in fear.
“I’m scared,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear.
He crouches down to my position and wraps his arms around my small frame. I raise the knife again. I contemplate whether it’s worth it. Is it worth it to end my life over this?