Could nobody understand what he knew so well? Could it be he was different in a non-conventional way? It was there again, eating away at his insides, burning through his heart. He hated it, hated the raw emotions that turned him to hurt himself physically to erase the unexplainable, unseen pain. Of course no matter the extent of injury he gave himself, the hollow pain always returned. He knew he was trapped, he knew he’d never completely erase what he hated so much, but he told himself it never hurt to try. And oh what a pun, he’d chuckle to himself when he was feeling a little beyond sane. He knew there was only one way to permanently end what he’d been fighting, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to give his life to the pain. It would be saying that he was weak, that he couldn’t handle what everyone else could. All it would take is a gun and a split second decision nobody could erase. Sometimes just the thought of that brought him peace, comforted him even, but he’d never tell anyone that. Why did he continue to hurt himself? Why didn't he stop? Wouldn't stopping the physical abuse end the internal pain? He knew it never could. He had tried that many times, each time returning to razor blade for comfort, for the strength to make it through the day. After all isn't that what life's all about? Surviving one more day. The razor blade slid across his bare arm, the warm blood trickled to the floor, and he knew he had survived another day.