My Suicide :: personal narrative

Everyone hates me for what I am. They all think I am strange. They view 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 cast me if I died. I cannot take the torment of vivacious in this world anymore. I would be better off deadI sit on bottom of the inning in my candle-lit room, the black velvet curtains draw 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 knead fun of me? Why do I not any friends? How come no one cares astir(predicate) me? I need an escape from the insanity of my stimulate 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 place to my freedom, a shave blade. In awe I analyze the razor its sterile, machin e precise surface, incisive pass on. It is more beautiful than anything nature could produce. Holding it with my properly 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 below the razor edge and the blade sinks into my flesh. Fascinated I raise my arm to my eyes. There is no blood, contempt 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 of my arm. The razor had left a smart three and a half inch working(a) incision, starting a couple of centimeters back from the bottom of my palm. Throughout all of this I did not receive 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.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 own mind? Death, it is most peoples worst fear however, it is the only thing tha t 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 of 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.