FicWad

I remember walking around the dusty corridors of that place. It was an old, abandoned prison and it was empty, nobody had been inside for years and this just made it even more perfect. This was it - I was going to kill myself... or so I'd planned.

I walked down into one of the deserted cells and sighed at what was infront of me. I crept over to the man that was attached to the cold stone wall with rusty iron chains. His eyes had a nervous glaze, his body visably shaking. He tried to speak, but he was gagged and all that was audiable was a muffled groan. I felt a smirk corrupt my face. This was going to be perfect, he'd slowly dehydrate in my suicidal absense. It was basic torture, but it would make revenge sweeter than Skittles. I stroked the man's icy flesh that made up his face and watched contently as he squirmed. I walked back up the crumbling stone stairs and into what would've been the Cheif's bathroom when this place was in operation. The room was covered in grime, all that dripped out of the limescale covered taps was contaminated water. The walls had handprints on them that looked as if they were bloodied prints, but they were so old that it was hard to tell. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and covered the majority of the spherical lampshade in the room, which meant the room was partially lighted. On another wall hung a mirror, covered in what appeared to be black tar with a circular shape that was clear enough to see through, that I'd done myself by cleaning the mirror slightly. I strode over to the sink and splashed my face with the murky water. I looked up into the mirror and saw the face of the devil himself. My eyes were bloodshot and emotionless, my skin was ghostly pale. I didn't recognise my own face anymore. I stared at the face I saw and it stared back for a while. I pulled a large kitchen knife up from my pockets and held it to my cheeks. The tip of the blade penetrated the skin as I began to cut myself a smile. Smiling is not something that I'm good at. This just made it permenant. I knew that this wouldnt kill me quick enough, so shifted the blade to my wrists and slashed across as deep as I could. The pain wasn't a problem, nothing I hadn't felt before. I closed my eyes and waited. And waited. Hours must've passed. I stood up, confused and dazed. I should be dead. I walked the mirror again and picked up the knife up from its residing spot on the blood blood-spattered floor. I held it to my throat and pushed it right in until I felt it scraping the bone. I cut across and cut off my airways, but I could still breathe. I was still alive. I couldn't get my head around this. I should be dead. I shouldn't be able to breathe. What's going on?! I stormed out of the room, thrust the knife into my abdomen and fell onto the floor at the top of the staircase. I screamed out in agony. Noone could hear. I yanked the blade out and moved it up to my chest cavity. I began to hack away at the flesh and shatter the bone until I saw it beating. It was beautiful. I slowly cut the arteries and it fell out onto the floor. I picked it up. The blood ran down my arms and onto the floor. Brings a new meaning to wearing your heart on your sleeve. The strangest thing was that I was still alive. I threw the now stilled muscle to the floor and ran down the staircase waving an axe. I ran at the man attached to the wall and began to hack away at him. The blood splashed all over me and I felt my body begin to burn. I slowly collapsed on the floor and eventually there was nothing left of me. I guess it just goes to say, you can torture yourself all you want, but only the blood of the poisoned one will give you the satisfaction you need to take your own life.