I'm actually surprised you chose this book out of the others.
You must have a taste, right?
Here's the first time I bled for no reason. I was seven. It's strange, but I still can't forget the way it felt—how the blood dripped like it had its own purpose, its own story to tell. What day was it again? Wait, I remember now. It's important... My birthday. My fucking birthday. Was it a gift? I don't know. I never asked for it. Maybe I deserved it, that scar, that bruise of red—so perfect, so unexpected. So... right.
And then, she—wait, I don't even know what she was, that girl. Was she me? Or was she a different me, trying to tear herself apart before I could even know who I was supposed to be? She was always trying to die, trying to kill off whatever part of her still remembered happiness, warmth, or something that resembled a normal life. But no—she wasn't allowed that. No one gets to be normal. No one gets to be happy, not when the world is this fucked. Not when the world can't even see you. So she—wait, no—I—I—we kept trying to die. Each time, the attempts grew more inventive. Not just jumping off buildings, but drowning in puddles, suffocating with a pillow, holding my breath for days until the air itself turned toxic. Every way I could think to disappear without anyone ever noticing.
And I wonder, is that the real punishment? To bleed in silence, to scream inside your own head where no one can hear? To want to die but know, deep down, you're too damn stubborn to go? I hated her for that. For wanting to escape, for refusing to just let go, but then again, didn't I want to die, too? Didn't I wish the world would swallow me whole and leave no trace?
But here I am. Still breathing, still sitting in this goddamn classroom, listening to the teacher drone on like a dead insect buzzing on the edge of my consciousness. Their words don't even stick. Nothing sticks. Everything just slides right off me like oil on skin, leaving a slick of nothing behind. The classroom smells like rot, like death. Maybe that's why I'm so fucking numb. Maybe that's why I can't feel the weight of the air anymore.
But you? You're still here. You're still reading this. Why? Are you like me? Are you here for the crash? For the wreckage? Or do you think you can fix me, like some sort of goddamn hero? Don't get any ideas. You won't save me. No one ever does.
I think I might've been lying when I said I was seven. No, wait—scratch that. I wasn't. I was seven, but everything else about that moment is a blur. The blood, the pain, the twisted knot in my stomach that begged for a release that never came. Funny thing about pain—does it ever actually hurt? Or does it just make you feel something when everything else is hollow?
But it didn't stop there, did it? It never does. I'm not just talking about the blood either. No, no. That's too simple. Too neat. I'm talking about the thoughts—the thoughts that crawl under your skin like termites, biting and gnawing at your sanity until there's nothing left but raw, exposed nerves. I spent years chasing that chaos, hunting it down like a drug I couldn't quit. Every thought, every goddamn thought was like a razor against my ribs, and I couldn't—couldn't—stop cutting.
But let's not talk about that now. Let's talk about the ways I wanted to die. All of them. Or, better yet, let's not talk at all. Let's just be the noise, the static that scrambles in your brain and shakes you awake in the middle of the night. The panic, the terror of realizing you've been drifting, floating through life like an accident waiting to happen. And what if that's all I am? An accident. A mistake that should've been erased long ago.
Here I am again, though. Sitting in this fucking classroom, where time doesn't move, and everything feels like it's sinking into a void I can't get out of. The walls are too close. The ceiling is too far away. The people around me are just shadows. But you—yeah, you're real. You're still reading. I wonder why? Are you trying to piece me together? You're wasting your time.
You think you know pain? You think you know darkness? You don't. You have no idea. You won't understand until you've been to the edges of your own mind, to the places where everything fades, where all that's left is a heartbeat that refuses to stop, even when you beg it to. You know the feeling? The relentless, deafening silence that fills every crack in your head? That's where I live.
So, sure, keep reading. Keep looking for answers. But don't expect any. I'm just the mess you can't clean up. The wound that never heals. And if you stick around long enough, you'll see it—the part of me that's broken, that's lost in all the things it's never been able to find. But you won't save me. No one does. Not ever.
And if you think this is dark, wait until you see the rest. Wait until you realize how far I'm willing to go to make you feel what I feel. You wanted the crash, didn't you? Well, here it is. In full, fucking technicolor. Enjoy the ride.
Funny thing about pain—it's never really about the wound, is it? It's about the waiting. The waiting for the wound to scream. To make you remember it's there. That's the part that eats at you. That gnawing, relentless awareness that nothing is ever gone, even if you can't see it anymore. The cuts on my skin fade. But inside, the scars remain, layering on top of each other like the pile of half-forgotten names I can't even begin to remember.
And the faces. Don't get me started on the faces. Every one of them is a mask. A lie. And don't think you're any different. You're sitting there, reading this like you know me, like you can pull me apart piece by piece and somehow stitch me back together. But you won't. Not even close.
There was a time when I thought I could break free, when I thought maybe if I felt enough, if I broke enough, something might change. But that's bullshit, isn't it? You can't escape what you are, not when you've spent years running. I'm not going anywhere. I'm like a goddamn shadow, clinging to the wall, waiting for the light to die so I can slip away without being noticed.
Still, you're here. And I guess you're not the only one. I've been waiting for someone like you to show up. Not to save me. No. Fuck that. But to see me. To look at the mess and maybe, just maybe, feel something from it. Because I can't be the only one, right? I can't be the only one who feels like a goddamn house of cards, ready to collapse if anyone even breathes wrong. I don't want to be alone anymore. Not like this. But I am.
The classroom is still suffocating me. The air's thick, like it's made of ash, like someone's been burning everything that ever mattered. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. Maybe I've been inhaling all that smoke for too long. It's made my lungs black. And I'm running out of breath. Not just in this classroom, but in this life. But don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. Not yet. Not until I can get one last scream out of this carcass of mine.
I wonder—do you know what it's like to wake up and feel like you've already lost? To look in the mirror and wonder who the fuck you even are anymore? I know who I am. I know exactly what I am. I'm the thing that haunts your thoughts. The one you keep pretending doesn't exist. The one who pushes you until you start asking yourself what the hell's wrong with you.
But you're still here. You can't look away, can you? Because it's not just my mess you're seeing—it's yours too. You don't get to escape that. Not today.
The bell's going to ring soon, and you'll all get up, walking out like nothing ever happened, like I'm not still sitting here, rotting away inside. But you're here with me now. And that, that's the part that counts. That's the part you won't forget.So, here we are. Still breathing. Still bleeding. You know, I used to think there was a point to all this. A reason for it. But now? I know. There isn't. There never was. That's the trick, you see? The world doesn't owe you anything. The people around you don't owe you anything. And I sure as hell don't owe you anything. But you're still here, aren't you? Still reading, still searching through the wreckage like you might find something worth saving. Newsflash: there's nothing here for you.
It's funny how we all look for answers, like there's some magic solution to this. This… feeling. But let me let you in on a secret. There is no answer. There's just this endless loop, this constant cycle of trying to stay sane long enough for it to matter. But it doesn't matter. It never does. And you want to know why? Because when you've spent enough time in the dark, you forget what light even feels like. You forget what it means to feel anything that isn't this... this gnawing emptiness. And that's when it hits. When you can't even remember who you are anymore.
I see you. Watching me. Watching this. You think you know me? You think you know anything about this mess? Don't flatter yourself. I'm a riddle wrapped in a mystery buried beneath a thousand fucking layers of regret. And every time you peel one back, there's just more darkness. Just more nothing.
I think I might've forgotten to tell you something important. Something you need to know. I'm not here because I want help. I'm not here because I'm waiting for the cavalry to show up and fix me. Nah. That's not how this works. You don't get to fix me. You don't even get to understand me. You just get to watch as I fall apart and somehow stay intact all at once.
You know what it's like to burn out, right? Not the kind of burn that lights up the sky in a big, glorious explosion. No, no. The kind of burn that eats at you from the inside out, slow and steady, until you're nothing but ash. But it doesn't end there. Because you're still alive, aren't you? Still breathing. Still fighting against the pieces of you that want to crumble.
I wonder if you've ever felt that. That crack in your mind, like it's going to shatter into a thousand pieces, but somehow, it doesn't. Somehow, it holds on. It holds on, even when you're screaming to be free, when you're begging for release. But you don't get to go. Not yet. Not until you've felt every last drop of it. And believe me, you're going to feel it all. Every. Single. Piece.
The teacher's still talking. The same damn buzz. I can't hear it. Can't feel it. But I can feel the eyes on me. Can feel the weight of their gaze, burning through me like some sort of punishment. I wonder what they see. Probably the same thing everyone else does. A broken thing. A fucked-up girl who can't even keep it together for five goddamn minutes. But I'm more than that. I'm the thing you don't know how to look away from. The thing you're scared to understand because once you do, you'll realize you're not that far from where I am. Not that far from the edge.
But you're still here, and you're still watching. You want to see how this ends, don't you? You think it's going to be some neat little conclusion, some wrap-up that gives you closure. Well, guess what? It won't. This isn't a story with a happy ending. This isn't a tale where everything's tied up neatly in a bow. This is real. This is the raw, fucked-up mess of a life that doesn't know how to be anything else. And I don't know how to make it prettier. I don't know how to make it softer.
So keep watching. Keep reading. Maybe you'll find something in these shattered pieces that will make you feel like you're not so alone in the dark. But don't think I'll let you off easy. No one gets to escape this. No one gets to walk away clean.
You wanted the wreckage? You wanted the destruction? Well, here it is. All of it. In your face. Deal with it.
Do you know what it's like to suffocate, but not with a pillow or hands wrapped around your throat? No, this is different. This is suffocating in your own skin, drowning in the thoughts that won't stop, won't let go. Every breath feels like a struggle, like the air is too thick, too heavy, but it's all in your head, isn't it? You don't get to blame anyone for this. It's all you. All the years you've spent trapped in this cage of your own making.
But you can't stop, can you? You can't stop the spiraling, the thoughts that circle like vultures waiting for the moment you break. You thought you were strong, didn't you? You thought you could outrun it. But now here you are, glued to this page, stuck in this storm with me. Welcome to the chaos. Welcome to the abyss.
They don't get it, do they? The ones who think they can talk to you, tell you to snap out of it, like you're just going to wake up and everything will be fine. They've never been here. They've never felt the weight of their own mind crushing them down like an anvil. You think you can breathe? You think you can escape it? You're not even close. And the worst part? You can't tell anyone. You can't tell them how the darkness is eating you from the inside out, how the silence is louder than any scream you've ever heard.
But you're still here. Still reading. And that's where I get you. Because no matter how far you run, no matter how many times you try to ignore it, you can't unsee what's been shown. And once you know this, once you know what I am, you can't erase it from your mind. I'll be with you. Like a shadow. Like a stain. And you'll never get rid of it.
So, what now? What's next? You want to know what happens? It doesn't end. It doesn't stop. Not until you're so far gone you don't even remember why you're still alive. But maybe that's the point. Maybe we're all just running in circles, pretending there's an end to this, pretending there's something better out there. But there isn't. There's just the waiting. The waiting for the day when the scream gets loud enough that you can't keep it in anymore. And when that day comes? You'll be glad I'm still here, because you won't be able to handle it on your own.
But it's okay. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To make sure you feel it. To make sure you don't forget how it feels to live in this constant, gnawing pain. You wanted this. You wanted the wreckage, the broken parts, the pieces of a soul that's been torn apart and put back together wrong. Well, here it is. I'm giving it to you. And you'll take it. Because you need it. You need to feel this. Because if you don't, you might forget you're still alive, too.
The bell rings. The world keeps moving. People leave. But you? You're stuck. You're here with me. And I'll be here until the end. Because there is no escape. No matter how hard you try. Not from me. Not from the wreckage I've made of myself. You don't get to walk away clean.
Keep reading. Keep going. See where it leads. You won't stop. Not until you've seen it all.