Living Hell It's dark. I'm alone. Alone with my paper and my pen. Paper wet with my tears and my blood. Now I cannot write. A knife in my hand. I ask for forgiveness. I know now I'm about to die. I hold the knife against my stomach. I try to scream. But my voice won't reach the top. I can't. I feel blood drip down my face. Tears of blood on my cheek. It's over. I feel weak. Can I go on? No. I finally find my voice. I scream. But now I know it's too late I fall to the floor. No energy. I'm about to die. But I don't. I still have the scar on my stomach. To me, scars are just bad memories. Each scar ha a different story. And that scar has the worst of them all.
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