My Suicide :: personal narrative

Everyone hates me for what I am. They all think I am strange. They behold as if i were the main attraction at a demon show. I hate myself for what i am non social, let outgoing and happy. No one would miss me if I died. I cannot hold the torment of alimentation in this world any more(prenominal). I would be break down off breathlessI sit on screw in my candle-lit mode, the black smooth curtains drawn shut. The smoke from the burning incescents swirls throughout the room the in the gruesome flickering light. The melancholy sounds of Nine-Inch-Nails softly echoes in the corners. Depressed, I wonder what is amiss(p) with me? Why does everyone make fun of me? Why do I not any friends? How come no one cares about me? I motif an escape from the insanity of my own mind? Death, it is roughly peoples worst hero-worship however, it is the only thing that will liberate me from this blaze on earth. In my hand I hold the key to my freedom, a razor brand. In awe I analyze th e razor its sterile, instrument precise metal, case edge. It is more beautiful than anything nature could produce. Holding it with my beneficial index leaf and thumb, I place its razor edge upon my leftfield wrist. It glistens in the candles flames.I stare as the shadows of the razor dance worry ghosts on my fore arm. I apply pressure down on the brand until the skin depresses down the stairs the metallic edge. Slowly I apply more pressure. My skin separates beneath the razor edge and the firebrand sinks into my flesh. Fascinated I raise my arm to my eyes. There is no blood, despite the fact that in that respect is a constituent of metal embedded in my wrist. I cut back my arm support down and again grasp the razor blade with my right hand. I slide the razors edge on my arm, away from my wrist, and wherefore remove the blade from out of my arm. The razor had left a open three and a half inch surgical incision, starting a couple of centimeters defend from the bott om of my palm. Throughout all of this I did not feel a thing. Finally, blood slowly beads up along the slit. Instantaneously the come out splits open into a deep crevice. Blood gushes out from the wound, pouring onto my satin bed sheets.My Suicide personal narrativeEveryone hates me for what I am. They all think I am strange. They stare as if i were the main attraction at a freak show. I hate myself for what i am not social, outgoing and happy. No one would miss me if I died. I cannot take the torment of living in this world anymore. I would be better off deadI sit on bed in my candle-lit room, the black velvet curtains drawn shut. The smoke from the burning incescents swirls throughout the room the in the pale flickering light. The melancholy sounds of Nine-Inch-Nails softly echoes in the corners. Depressed, I wonder what is wrong with me? Why does everyone make fun of me? Why do I not any friends? How come no one cares about me? I need an escape from the insanity of my ow n mind? Death, it is most peoples worst fear however, it is the only thing that will liberate me from this hell on earth. In my hand I hold the key to my freedom, a razor blade. In awe I analyze the razor its sterile, machine precise metal, cutting edge. It is more beautiful than anything nature could produce. Holding it with my right index finger and thumb, I place its razor edge upon my left wrist. It glistens in the candles flames.I stare as the shadows of the razor dance like ghosts on my forearm. I apply pressure down on the blade until the skin depresses under the metallic edge. Slowly I apply more pressure. My skin separates beneath the razor edge and the blade sinks into my flesh. Fascinated I raise my arm to my eyes. There is no blood, despite the fact that there is a piece of metal embedded in my wrist. I lower my arm back down and again grasp the razor blade with my right hand. I slide the razors edge along my arm, away from my wrist, and then remove the blade from out o f my arm. The razor had left a clean three and a half inch surgical incision, starting a couple of centimeters back from the bottom of my palm. Throughout all of this I did not feel a thing. Finally, blood slowly beads up along the slit. Instantaneously the cut splits open into a deep crevice. Blood gushes out from the wound, pouring onto my satin bed sheets.