These Hands of Death.

He put my test down on the desk in front of me, interrupting my doodle. He didn't say anything about it, just kept going around the room handing out the results. I picked it up, finding my total mark at the top of the page. Twenty-three percent, in a big red circle. Fucking brilliant. I sighed, shoving the test in the back of my book, with all the others. I swear I hadn't passed a single Math test that semester. I was glad class finished a couple of minutes after.
I locked myself in a cubicle in the girls' toilets at lunch, putting the lid down and sitting on it, dumping my bag on the floor. That was the third week in a row I'd locked myself away like that. My friends didn't seem to notice my absence, which was good, I guess. I leaned my head back against the wall, staring at the lights in the roof. I could feel the burning in my wrists, all up my arms. I pulled up my sleeves, looking at the deep red scars that ran across my arms. It was like a plague I couldn't rid myself of. A plague that I welcomed.
I reached a hand into my pocket, pulling out my little pocket knife. I flipped it out, reading the writing on the silver blade. 'Cowboy Toothpick'. Me and my best friend had always laughed at that name. I put it to my wrist, closing my eyes, and deftly slit the skin, a practice I was extremely familiar with by then. I returned the knife to my pocket and watched the blood seep out my body. I needed to stop that. I had more than eighty cuts on both arms, increasing every day, and it still wasn't enough. I don't know what was wrong with me. Just seeing the blood, my life, my problems, leaving my body in a red liquid so good was just... I don't know how to describe it. It was a release.
I realised I had to be at my next class shortly, so I grabbed a bit of toilet paper to stem the blood flow with. I was glad it stopped bleeding within a minute or two -the cut wasn't that deep, not as deep as some of them. I felt cold, like I usually did after cutting. I didn't have a lot of blood to loose, especially since I feared I was anaemic. When I cut, I often hit a vein, because there wasn't as much flesh as there should have been to stop me getting to them. I hadn't been eating practically anything for a week or so, and I'd lost a fair amount of weight because of it. I didn't mind, as long as nobody said anything about it. Which nobody had at that point.
In science class, we did a practical, but as usual I didn't participate. I was the one that hung by the edge and took down the results, not interacting. My previous boyfriend, who used to be an extremely close friend even when after we'd broken up, was still avoiding me. It wasn't avoiding me that irked me, it was the fact that it had been over a little dispute. After all we'd argued over, the tiniest, most insignificant thing had thrown him over. I always did tell myself that he had a weak mind.
The rest of the day was the same as every Wednesday before it, with incredibly recurrent eye-contact with a guy I love, avoiding my friends, and not giving a fuck about classes. People always told me I should care about my grades more, but I never listened. I tried, but couldn't find the effort. That night I'd looked in the mirror after my shower, seeing the dark bags under my eyes, my skin pale, my eyes empty, my face unfamiliar.
I didn't go to school the next day. I said I was sick, and my mother left me to my own devices, the house to myself. I tried to catch up on some sleep, but no matter how much I got, I was still tired. I'd begun to think it wasn't a lack of sleep that made me this tired, but a lack of good health. I got messages from a couple of people, asking me where I was, and I simply told them I was ill. Their concern didn't matter much to me.
I made vain attempts to keep myself uplifted during the day, filling myself with caffeine and sugar and doing a diary entry or two and singing along to Guitar Hero while I destroyed the guitar. None of it really worked. I always had the underlying sadness, the pain that didn't go away, but hid in the background. Every second of downtime I had, it was there, tearing me apart. There was nothing I could do about it. All I could do was cut, and even then, that still wasn't satisfying enough. By the end, I had deep bloody gashes all over my torso and legs as well as my arms, almost my whole body covered in clusters of red scars.
It just wasn't enough.
I was in the kitchen later, somewhere around three in the afternoon. My face was wet and my eyes were burning. I'd just been crying, for the fifth time that day. I cleaned myself up, then just leant against the kitchen bench, staring out the window. My eyes scanned the room, then rested on the drawer we kept our knives in. I pulled one out, its blade slightly serrated and its black handle fitting nicely in my hand. I don't know why I pulled it out. I just felt like I needed to.
I had a few hours before the others came home. I could do any number of things in that time-frame, with just that knife. Any number of them, but I chose only one. I put the knife down, grabbing a piece of paper from the study and a pen, and began to write. Three A4 pages worth. My wrist hurt by the time I finished, signing my name at the bottom. It was legible enough. I grabbed some blu-tak and stuck it to the window, where it would be easily seen. The title of the pages; 'A Suicide Note'.
My hands were shaking at that point. My cold, bony fingers curled around the handle of the knife again, my face reflected in the stainless silver. I sunk to the floor, in the corner of the kitchen. I don't know why I did it, what compelled me. I knew it was wrong. I knew it would be frowned upon by society. But I didn't care. I'd been to the abyss before, and the promise of being there permanently was just too compelling for me to ignore. I pressed the tip to my throat, leaning my head back so my windpipe became prominent. I closed my eyes, knowing that would be the last time I would ever do that.
My hand tightened around the knife, and I took in a sharp breath. The muscles in my arms tightened, my hands moving forward in a single, sharp, deft motion.
And it was done.
The knife was sticking out of my throat, my hands having loosened and fallen to my sides. Blood poured from my mouth and nose, leaking from the wound in my neck. I was drowning in my own blood, suffocating, dying. That was what I had always wanted. I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before I was never coming back. Even if an ambulance was called in that second, it would still have been too late. Not that I would have called one anyway. I could feel my life slipping away, leaving me. Instead of being in my body, life covered my face, my clothes, the floor, in the form of red liquid, luscious and warm as it left my now cold body.
Finally, it had been done. Finally, I could be at peace. Finally, it was all over. Finally, I had everything I ever wanted: nothing.
Finally.