Prologue: Like A Rose I stared at the knife on the table in front of me, the knife that had ended my sister's #life. Slowly, I reached for it, and I picked it up by its diamond encrusted hilt. I raised it over my arm, and set the cold blade against my skin. This is how it felt, I thought, this is how it felt to raise a dagger to your own skin, to hate yourself so much, to hate what you are so much that you would slice open your own wrists, and watch your own blood blossom from the cuts like a rose, so beautiful, but so deadly. I drew the blade over my hip, and felt the pain from the cut - but it was a good feeling, in hurting yourself, you focused on only the physical pain, and it numbed the sting of the misery you felt inside. I finally understood why people did this, this constant cycle of drawing blood, and the pain numbing the real pain, the pain inside of you. And so I drew. I drew patterns, stripes of red - my pencil, a knife. I drew until I could no more, when my legs, my arms, my stomach were decorated. It had its own beauty, I thought, it showed me for who I was - broken. And indeed, I was broken. My fate was unlike any other, it was a twisted certainty. My future was set in stone and I was an inevitable tool for destruction from the minute I was born. The #life I lead is a never ending curse - because it is my destiny to bring about the end of civilisation.