In the Drafts; Short stories that may never be good enough.

The cold feel of metal as I sliced it through my wrist, i felt a sting as i watched the blood seep out of my skin. I smiled, dragging the blade deeper into my skin. I didn't mean for it to happen this way, but this was my only true escape.

It a started with a thin line of blood that trickled down from my wrist to my fingers before the journey to kiss the broken tiles. The blood of the broken on broken tiles what a marvelous coincidence, my mind transversed many timelines of my life but only in a few would I opt for survival.

The pain exploded in my head with a blinding whiteness, It made me dizzy. I was laying in a pool of my own blood slipping in and out of consciousness, the throbbing pains were what I considered a proof of life in this broken body. My spirit was no longer here, and my mind; scattered abroad. And , just when the pain was at its worst, it dissipated, like fog off some eerie lake.

I reckon that everyone’s story must come to an end. But mine ended not because I ran out of ink or paper,but simply because

I STOPPED WRITING

🧶

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