Eight oclock has been and gone. The clock struck eight times, slowly, and I missed my chance.

I said I would do it at eight oclock. I couldnt do it. My hands are shaking; shaking with anger and cowardice and sadness and shock. I can hardly see through the veil of tears flooding from my bright red, raw eyes. My hair is dirty and hangs across my face, hiding my pain from the posters on my wall that I can feel watching me, judging me, mocking me. The glass of water on my desk is still full. The pills in my hand are still in my hand. Ive stopped being able to comprehend my emotions, but right now I think the overriding feeling is pity. I pity myself for being so useless, I pity my complete lack of bravery, I pity the ridiculous excuse for a person that I am. In fact, no; I am not a person. People dont do this, people dont want to die. Im not a person any more; Im just a vessel for sadness. I open my window and toss the little white pills into the night. I cant be around them, I am not worthy of being in their presence. Im too much of a coward for that. Then, I cut myself thirty-four times and sit up all night trying to remember the last time I felt happy. Its the morning, and the cold, hard light of dawn is creeping in through the gap in my curtains where I threw my feeble attempt at suicide out of the window last night. Its Monday and I have to go to school. I havent slept at all and I havent even thought about the homework I was given last week. Well, why would I? The only place I was expecting to be going today was hell.