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The glass shattered. No one came running to see what happened.

No one cared. I pulled back my bleeding hand, inspecting it for glass.

There was none.

I looked out the shattered window. So much out there to be offered. But not for me.

I am locked away from the world. I moved to another window.

Pulling my bleeding fist back, I struck again.

Once again the glass shatters, falling around my hand. The window is now an open space of air. I pull a few pieces of glass from my skin. Leaning through the window I look at the ground below. It looks so far down from here, four stories down. But it isn’t far enough.

I want to be free. To be able to look at the world at eye level instead of looking down.

The jump would be so easy from here. I wish I were higher, but that can’t be helped.

I step onto the ledge and take one last look at the ground. Two hands fall upon my shoulders. I turn in surprise only to lose my footing on the broken glass.

I slip out the window, reaching up to grab the ledge.

Instead, I find a strong hand gripping my wrist and pulling me up.

Once seated firmly on the floor of my fathers room, I look up into the eyes of my savior.

A pare of dark brown eyes bore into mine.

For a second those piercing eyes appeared black, but I looked again and the where brown.

Those deep brown pools turned and walked away from me.

I stood there staring, watching the figure walk down the stairs.

Finally, they walked out of sight and I looked at the window again.

Looking the door, I sat on the bed bandaging my arm.

This skill I have acquired due to the repetition of this process. I would, now, wait for another day to jump. As long as those eyes haunted me, I would wait.

Until those eyes closed for good, I would not jump.

Tomorrow those eyes would close for good and | could end the pain.

The blood would spill, both his and mine.

The blood will continue to flow Shinku, now and forever.

I watch the blood drip from my fingertips onto the carpet. It’s a white carpet; the blood will stain it. But that doesn’t matter. No one comes into this room anyway. And if anyone did, it’s not like they’d care that I had been bleeding.



The cuts on my forearm are long but shallow. The knife did not cut deep. I want to hurt not to die.



Four wounds. Four long slashes from my elbow to my wrist. One on each side; top, bottom, left, right. Each symbolizing pain. My pain. The pain of my past. The pain of my present. The pain of my future.



The pain of what can never be.



My arm hangs limply down at my side. It’s almost hypnotic, the way the blood flows smoothly down my arm; the way it falls onto the pristine ivory carpet. Unlike in books or movies, it doesn’t make a ‘drip, drip’ noise when it falls from my fingers or when it hits the floor. No noise when it loses the battle with gravity and speeds towards the floor. And only a faint barley audio thud when it hits the white carpet, like the sound of something running into a wall from a distance. No ‘drip’ sound.



Unless, of course, you know the stain is there. Then you see it, feel it, even though you don’t want to. It haunts you.



My arm is starting to go numb, but still the bloodstains. Flows and falls and stains. Never ending.



I don’t’ know why I haven’t killed myself. Maybe part of it is Erika, the knowledge that she said she needs me. I need to be needed. Everyone needs to be needed, at some point in your life; or else you go crazy with dispair and sense of uselessness. Maybe that’s why I haven’t sliced my wrist open instead of my arm. But really, I think a lot of it is my stubbornness. I refuse to give up, refuse to lose, refuse to let everyone who ever hurt me to have the last laugh and dance on my grave. I’m absolutely determined to inkinokoru. It means to live after disaster. I won’t let the demons take me. I’ve got a trump card: Survival instinct.



Everyone has it, but the difference is that I know how to use it, and use it well. I shut down everything but the most basic instinct. I lose myself, becoming nearly animalistic except that I am human. I have only one goal, all the same: Survive.



And I will.



For a few moments, I watch the blood collect on my fingertips, then fall, one by one. I pull a white bandage from my pocket, wrapping it tightly around my arm. Blood soaks through, staining the once-pure cloth like people stained my once-pure soul.



The remaining blood drips from my fingertips.



It’s Crimson.

I see the children, I see all their scars

I fear the monsters that don't know who they are



When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?

When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?



I am too frightened to open my door

I can't stop shaking as I drop to the floor



When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?

When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?



Can you hear me?

Can you help me?

Can you hear me now?



Can you hear me?

Can you help me?

Can you hear me now?



My hands, unfaithful, did not protect me

My voice, transparent, when I need it to scream

What really happened during those nights?

I could not move so I just turned off inside



When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?

When did this all start?

When did I fall apart?



Can you hear me?

Can you help me?

Can you hear me now?



Can you hear me?

Can you help me?

Can you hear me now?



Hear me now...