My bitter pieces of such passion corrupted hatred. The image embedded in my mind for all time. All to see. There she goes. . . The sibling of destruction, I hate her. I hate her and her happiness, I pity her for her stupidity, I scream at her immaturity, I'd kill her if I had the chance. . . The image piercing my mind. . .

. . .then I toyed with her. Toyed with the pleasure of bearing her pain. Toyed with the wild ecstasy of hearing the shrilled cries escape from her chest. Of feeling the adrenaline race through her body as her last breathe eludes her throat. Hot blood dribbles down her neck in delicious rivulets of power. The hot sting burns her pale skin as her eyes roll back into her head revealing nothing of a living organism. Her small frame slides to the floor limp and mangled. Anger and madness drips from the bloodied knife onto her chest. I then raise my vice and chuckle softly, then the chuckle becomes a hysterical screech of laughter. The knife turns inward, toward and upon itself. Staring at the scarlet reflection I feel it. I feel its' heartbeat and its' pain. The joy of resentfulness of hatred. The handle scarring my flesh as it passes along tunnels of endearment. It stares at my soul, eyes reflecting silent orbs of crimson. The liquid drips onto my wrists in pools of dark black. It's drying, time for more. I feel the sharp cold point upon open flesh. The warm skin, the bitter biting frost of steel. And then it slides down in such a perfect line as to embed a permanent moment of pure happiness. The one feeling I thought unattainable. Mine at last. Joyous triumph overtakes me and I press harder. Embedding the coldness into my open flesh. A sad narcissistic smile crosses my lips as my palms lay face up. My veins uncovered, unconcealed, free to the torture they deserve. My scars for all to see in the raw bleeding of my mind. Deeper the torment goes. Deeper the ecstasy of love. The passion of hate. My eyes start playing tricks. I see chains and many other wonderful things. My breathing shallow I start to sleep. The wonderment and adrenaline pumping in my head. I lower myself to the cold ground, lie there still. They're watching, don't do it. They're eyes now averted, I clutch my only friend close to my chest and press deep. Deep into all of my torment, into my soul of twisted agony, deeper into the unknown crevasses of mirth and bitter anger. Then it stops, I've hit a wall. My madness no longer feeding off my energy, for my body is drained. I feel weak, I'm not myself. I'm no longer anything but a limp form on a cold heartless floor. Nobody will care. There is nobody to care, for they should have already met their demise as well. They are not deserving of breath, not yearning such life they fell. Even were they able, they would not care. That's why I no longer try, but sit in my room on lonely nights and cry. I cry myself to sleep far too often. In fits of mad rage and depression, the agony sucking me in. Farewell. . . .