Lots of triggers! If you get squeamish about suicide and self-harm and stuff, probably stop reading.

I look down at my feet.

"You always screw things up!"

"Why can't you just be quiet!"

The tears build in my throat, in my eyes. I can't let them see. They can never know that they hurt me.

"When will you learn? No one wants to hear from you! Just SHUT UP!!"

I deserve it. All of it. I screwed things up. Bad.

"Look at me. Look me in the eyes."

If I do, he'll see the tears. I'm so weak.

"I SAID LOOK ME IN THE EYES!!"

Now I have no choice. I look up, and he winces. I hurt him. I deserve to die.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so... so sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I overreacted."

It's ok. I shouldn't have done that. It's all my fault. I deserve the pain. The tears are a blessing.

He frowns. Tears well in his eyes, and I feel so bad. Why can't I do anything right? Why do I hurt those I love? I wish I could take away his tears. I wish he wasn't so sad. 

He says "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." He runs off to his room, and I hear the door slam. I feel so weak. My legs won't function, but I can't collapse here. Someone will find me here. They'll see how weak I am and blame me, after all, it is my fault. I work my way to the stairs. They're so high. My foot doesn't want to move. I force it to, but the distance is too much. I'm too weak.

I let it fall to the ground, and look around. There's a closet that we never use. I stumble towards it and force my numb fingers to open the door. There's space, between the clothes, boxes, and toilet paper. I sit down heavily, closing the door, and curl into a ball. My knees to my chest, I start to shake. Tears fall down my face, and all I feel is pain. The tears finally fall, and I lose vision. I swipe my hand across my eyes and see it wet with tears. Why can't I keep it in? Why do I force my pain on others? Why can't I just be normal?

Normal is a social construct, I tell myself. It doesn't really happen. So why can't I be... average?

Why can't I be someone they don't hate? Why do I always make them sad? I shouldn't be that person!

I need to keep my mask, but it's been slipping, cracking. Thomas vids less and less now, so I have more time to think. More time for these thoughts.

You'll never be enough. You can't keep yourself together, much less your family. You deserve the pain. You screwed everything up. We lost everything, and it's your fault. They'd be fine without you. You're nothing but a pain. They don't care about you. They never will.

They only love the mask, and as it slips, you lose them. They loved you, and you broke it. You break everything, even your self. You can't keep it together, and you're hurting them. You'll never be one of them if you're this broken. You'll never be anything!

I'm crying and shaking, but the urge won't go away.

Another one. Why not? They won't notice. They never notice you, except to yell. 

I pull out a knife. It's sharp, but not very. It's short but powerful, and it's the only thing that matters.

I drag a line across my skin. Harder. It didn't break the skin, it needs more pressure. Harder. Blood finally wells, but it's not enough. Again.Yet another streak of red. There's a beauty to it, the bright red, and pale skin. A beauty and a mess. I grab a roll of toilet paper and press some to the cut. It has a small splotch of red. I keep the blood from running onto my clothes, and I realize I'm running out of time. The pain will kick in soon, and I'm such a wuss that it'll stop me. I grab the knife again. A few more. Just a few more.

The pain kicks in, and I curl into myself, crying again. I press the toilet paper back to it and just sit there. I stop crying, and the pain of the words is still there, as is the pain in my arm, but it's not making me cry. What kind of monster am I? I deserve the tears. I messed up, and those tears are mine. 

My brain keeps ticking, going through the past. I stop at a fond memory, one that will never happen again. The tears come back, and I cry for the people they used to be, innocent and brave. Before it went wrong. Before I hurt them.

I keep the memory in my mind and cry for the past, and the future. The moments we'll never have, the stories we'll never tell, the things we'll never share. I'm the second oldest side, so in the memory, I'm about eight, and they're about seven. Roman and Remus play on a see-saw, each trying to catapult the other. I call them over, and we get ice cream. They smile at me, and for the first time, I realize that this is what made me addicted to the joy, the love, the smiles. And the pain that came with it.

I hide my knife and bloody toilet paper. I'm so tired. I curl up into the cold floor and pull a spare blanket over me.

 Sleep is my only relief.