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I gaze at my skin and observe it's color. Those around me say I am beautifully pale, but I have never seen what they have. To be pale would be to have rich and ivory skin, but when I look at mine I see nothing but purple and red, intertwined with the green veins that poison my every thought. To me, I was sickly and cold - always just so cold. Hands clammy, thoughts poisoned, and cold metal gripped in my hands.

At the moment in which I died with the gun in my hand, I had seen what had been the first warm thing escape me in the longest time. Warm blood flowing beneath and between my fingers held firmly to my chest, and the ring of smoke rising from the bullet wound. A smile dimly lit my face, as my thoughts were clear for the very first time. Set free from a world of despair, I was now alive as I closed my eyes into an eternal slumber.

Images rushed by me in Technicolor. So vivid and severe in nature that they seemed to happen right before my eyes. An innocent girl taken over by guilt and regret, and the monster standing in front of her with a cold hard stare as he placed his hand on her one last time.

Just one last time.

Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she took the abuse as she always did. Lying motionless as a stone, this man had his way with her. A cold shiver brushed over her as if someone had just walked over her grave. She swallowed hard, as he finished what he had started and his motions came to a stop. He didn't run. He didn't swear. He didn't even raise his voice. He just sat up casually on the edge of the bed and slowly zipped up his jeans. To him, he had done nothing wrong as he walked away without so much as a word. Just that poisonous stare. A coy smile and eyes cold as metal.

She never really thought of herself as crazy. In fact, the word had never crossed her mind. What she did to cope with the pain was to drag a blade across her skin, although it never seemed to help. It seemed to be the only thing she had control over anymore, but this particular session was short lived as the surgical blade fell to the floor, and she sat staring blankly at the wall.

"Pathetic", she said. "That's all I can say", wiping her face with her sleeve and laying back down.

She had her theories. To cut oneself was a brief look at what life would be without her troubles. But within itself, being victimized by the blade was a problem as well. And so this was the last time, she proposed, that she would ever drag her blade across her skin, and benefit

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