Obsession, Confession, and Depression.

     The blade punctured my skin and drew a very thin and straight line across my pale wrist. I let out a little gasp, taken aback at how much it actually stung. Before the blade even finished the smooth line, blood started to fill the gap between the two sheets of skin. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sight. As the gash started overflowing with the color of crimson red, a single droplet was released from the indent that I had made in my skin. Fear encircled me as I took in what had just exactly happened. I did that. The reason that the area around the slit had began stinging horrendously after a couple seconds once the damage had been done. Had my blade been infected? Couldn’t have been, it was new: straight out of the box. The more my brain focused on the pain that was pulsing around the cut, the more I began to realize that the pain released felt...incredible. Not only that but it had been terribly hard for me to pull my eyes away from the blood dripping down my wrist. So much blood and such a little cut. So so much blood. Had I gone too deep? It had stung badly. It stung still. It stings. “Jane?"

The voice belonged to the dead one in my head. The one that no longer existed. Her. Ever since the accident her voice would never leave my head. I had two people in my head, battling to push the other out so that for once I could have my thoughts. My own thoughts. Instead of having her opinions and my opinions intertwining and making me reconsider every second of my life. I made one mistake. So what? Tons of people make mistakes. "But you made a big mistake" The voice whispers. I want to tell her to shut up. To leave me alone. She has no business doing here. The thing is, she is right. I did make a big mistake. It was terrible, I'll admit, but didn't everyone deserve a second chance? "Killing someone rarely gives anyone the privilege of a second chance." I resist the urge to scream, because I know if I do, Papa will surely hear and come up, asking questions again like he did last time I screamed. I can't worry him anymore. I can't. Hurting him through my mistake was bad enough. Seeing the pain on his face every day that his daughter killed someone...it pains me and I can't bear it. it is hard enough catching slight glimpses of it, I can't imagine looking him dead in the face and confronting the wrinkles ingrained in his forehead that I know I have caused. I am the reason for everything. His shame. His cries at night that he thinks I can't hear. His sorrow. His depression. Everything that he worries about and agonizes over I caused because I am not a good person. I am not a good person. I am the opposite. I am a murderer. 

   

Reviews

[Silvario]

well, very interesting. a well written opening to what could prove to be a rather intriging story. and intrigue it does, im so curious now who she murdered and why. seems youve set up a complex character here in a very tense situation

well done indeed and on to the next chapter :)