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I wrote something. It's, as usual, pretty freakin' disturbing:


Sixteen years old is too young to reach the end of your existence. Isn't it? It should be.

I'm in no physical pain. I rarely ever am. It's all mental. All in my head. My brain hurts. Haha. It's a joke.

Everything's such a joke.

Nothing feels right anymore...breathing, eating, sleeping, laughing, crying...it all feels fake. I feel fake. I feel like I'm not here...like I'm not meant to be here.

Are any of us meant to be here?

I can never think anything real. You know how people say they see things in their mind? I can't. I can't even really tell what my thoughts are saying. I've never told anyone this. I'll tell you because you can keep a secret.

I don't exist.

Sure, you can see me. You can hear me. You can feel me. But I don't exist. I can't exist. Nothing can exist under these conditions. It's like plants. Only it's not too much sun or rain or whatever...it's pain. And anger. And sadness. And hurt. And it's all because of me.

I'm this way because of me. I can't blame anyone else. I won't blame anyone else. No one could possibly make another person feel this way.

I'm not real, am I?

The thought makes my heart feel like it's about to squeeze out of my chest. I haven't felt my heart in a long time.

Maybe I should see if it's still there.

Your eyes sure got big when I pulled out the knife. Don't worry, it's not for you. It's for me.

Oh...God. Heh. I slice into my breastbone and that's the first thing I think about. God. Will He exist?

Will I exist?

My fingers are slick and shaking. I can't even hear you screaming anymore. I can barely see anything. I can barely feel the knife or the bone or the muscle or the blood or the pain...

I laugh. ********, I do have a heart. I also have a stomach and lungs and intestines and now I can barely feel anythi





Take a wild guess as to why it cuts off.