It is study hall. Why bother with the class? I get my pass signed and I am off to my closet.

I pass by the library as I walk down to the closet. It occurrs to me that I havent done much in there but stare at that poster of Maya Angelou and contemplate everything that happened that night.

What wouldve happened if I hadnt called the cops? If I could speak? If I wasnt drinking? If I didnt go?

Obviously I wouldnt be like this. I would still be friends with Santana. I would still be my outgoing self. I wouldnt be depressed. Im depressed. I know it. Im showing so many of the common symptoms. The other day I found myself standing in an ankle deep bath with a razor in my right hand as I cut my left wrist. It felt good as the blood trickled down my stained wrists as I equally cried. It was painful but it was the best thing Ive felt since that horrid night.

But anyways, I find myself gravitating into the library. I need something to do to pass the time. Maybe a good book could help? I check out a few books and I now Im back on track.

I lay on the floor that was now occupied with old pillows and blankets we had in our house and I open the first book on my stack. It looks like a decent one. Ive seen a few people reading it so I guess its kind of popular.

I begin reading it. It isnt that bad. I find myself so into it that I forget the time. It isnt until the bell rang that I decide to stop reading. I was gone too long. Im going to be hearing about this sometime after lunch. Oh, what fun.

Back at home I find myself doing a recurrence of the other day. I fill the bathtub to my ankles, grab a fresh razor blade and begin to slit my scarring wrists. I scream bloody murder as the pain sweeps through my body. I still dont care, even if I was crying and wincing. Pain was the only thing you could feel. It was the only thing I demand myself to feel.

I stop and look down at the now red water. I drop the blade into the tub and fall to my knees. I rinse my arms with the bloody water then get out and dry myself with a towel as I let the water drain.

I look at my cut up wrists and begin to cry again.

Why did he do this to me?

I can see the flashes in my head. The lit up oak tree in the back. Me laughing. My friends laughing. I raise the cup up to my lips and - No! I stop myself from thinking back to the awful night and decide to take a nap instead. It might do me some well.