Trigger Warning: Mention of suicide and depiction of self-harm

My keys rattle softly as I turn in the keyhole of my apartment door. When I hear the low click sound, I push the door open and step into the dark room before turning on the lights to my 1BR loft apartment. This place still looks the same as when I first rented it 5 years ago. White wall, black or brown color furniture, and a few—almost none—home decor items.

Plain and dull, just like me.

My landlord does allow me to decorate the apartment if I want—to make it more homely is what they said—as long as I ask for their permission, but I decide to just keep everything to a minimum. Just to make it easier for me to sort my stuff when I'm gone one day.

After making sure the door is locked, I hang my keys on the over-the-door hooks and walk to the living room; I place my backpack on the floor as I sit on the sofa, sinking my whole body to the soft cushion. I look up, staring at the high ceiling with a blank expression before letting out a sigh.

Today has been quite a tiring day. After the incident in the break room, I’ve been ignoring Kayden’s constant glances during the last hour of work—or, at least, trying to. It’s hard to ignore when I know my colleague doesn’t have a good opinion of me and I’m totally clueless about it. I may or may not have sprinted out of the office as soon as the clock hits 05:00 PM. I’m not good with confrontation, so I try to avoid it as much as I possibly can.

Things will get pretty awkward at work from now on.

I wonder if my other colleagues also feel the same way about me. I’m aware that I don’t have the greatest personality. I’m gloomy, unfriendly, arrogant, and selfish; I wouldn’t be surprised if they hate my guts too. Dolores is a kind superior and I feel bad for making her feel unnecessarily worried about me. It’s all my fault.

I wish I could just stop being a burden to everyone.

I let out another long sigh as I shifted to an upright position. I glance at the coffee table; It’s messy with leftover papers and cardboard cutouts from the mock-up package design I did for a client, while my stationery scatters everywhere around the table. I plan to clean it up, but I keep putting it off until a week eventually passes. Among the mess, my eyes are focused on a specific object—a box cutter.

My mind is racing. I need an escape from everything. I wonder if pain would help me forget and distract me from the things that happened today. I’m aware I’ve been staring at the box cutter for way too long, but I can’t seem to brush off the urge that’s currently building inside me.

My right hand slowly reaches out to grab the box cutter, inspecting it for a moment before pushing out the sharp blade. I roll up my left sleeve and turn my arm to show my wrist which is still clean without any scars. Slowly, I move the box cutter near my wrist…

I slice the skin and immediately blood starts gushing out from the open wound, staining the floor and carpet in deep crimson color. I don't even flinch in pain when it finally happens. I just stare blankly at my wrist which is still pouring red blood out of my body like a waterfall. It doesn't take long for the living room to form a puddle of my own blood.

… And I stop before the tip of the blade meets my skin. My hand, which is holding the box cutter, is visibly shaking. My breath is erratic. Cold sweats begin to damp my face. I stay frozen in place for another long minute before retracting the blade and putting it back on the table. I lean my back to the sofa and exhale deeply, covering my face with both of my hands.

I can’t do it.

I want to do it, but I’m scared of the pain that would come afterwards. It’s easier to imagine doing it until I have to do it at the moment.

No matter how many times I try to slash my wrist, my body will tense up and fear starts to overwhelm my thoughts. Even though I know it’s something I should do, yet I’m still the biggest hurdle that’s keeping me away towards the goal.

I’m so pathetic.

I’m probably the only person in the world who is not only failing at life, but also at dying as well.

“... Why can’t I just do something right for once?” I mutter under my breath. Voice hoarse from trying to hold back tears.

I don’t know how long I stay on that sofa, maybe about half an hour, but it feels like forever. I take a deep breath, remove my hands from my face and stare blankly at the ceiling again. Now that I have calmed down, a surge of exhaustion just comes all over me and my stomach starts to rumble loudly. Honestly, I’ve already lost my appetite after all of the emotional rollercoaster I’m experiencing; although, my body says otherwise.

I think I’ll just take a quick shower and go to bed, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyway. I’ve been having trouble sleeping as far as I can remember and I refuse to use sleeping pills again. If I'm lucky enough, I can at least get 4 or 5 hours of sleep. Other than that, I'm often woken up in the middle of the night because of nightmares—or more like I'm being haunted by the same nightmare almost every single night. I say 'nightmare', but it's actually more like a flashback of my past that I wish I could forget.

It is a memory of the day when I tried to end myself for the first time and failed.

I was only 17 at the time.

Whenever I have that dream, it feels like I’m reliving that day all over again. My old bedroom in my parents’ home; sounds of laughter coming from downstairs; cold sweats; slowed heartbeat; and silent cries as I vomit my guts out into the trash bin before losing consciousness.

My head pounds at the memory. I wrap my arms around myself tightly as shivers begin to run through my body—fear and sorrow are showing on my face. I shut my eyes, praying to whoever would listen to my plea and wishing for one night where I can sleep without torturing myself.

That’s all I want right now.

Peace.