Bringing back the dead isn't nearly as possible as we think. It takes. A lot of time. A lot. Of time. A lot of it. We use electricity. Shocks. To start the heart back up again. But if they can be alive again. Why can't any of us become alive again? We are alive. We walk. We talk. We smile. Well. Some of us. But deep inside. Where that piece is missing. We're dead. Horribly dead. Horribly. Because that piece is missing. Whether it be love. Hate. Friendship. Life. Anything. Anything you want it to be. And it's going to stay there. Lost. Forever. Never to be found. And that whole time we're still dead. Wishing we were alive again. Just wishing.

    Darkness provides light. For some of us. It's a light. It's a path. It's the way. It leads us through whatever be bad. Though for some it's like hell. You can't see. You can't feel. Your numb. Just like from the pain. And it stays there until your back in your safe territory. Where what you call is home. The darkness. It's a home for me. I know that I told you we don't like the darkness. That we hate it just as much as you do. The darkness. Though some of us find comfort there. It's the only place we feel like ourselves. Where nobody. Nobody. Is teasing. Pointing. Laughing. Screaming. And we're alone. Suffering. Alone. Without the amount of pain. We feel from your ugly stares. We feel safe there. Where nobody can touch us. Nobody.

    Look deep inside. Stare at a mirror. Look at your reflection. Burn. Feel it? The burn. The reality. Of seeing who you really are. On the outside. Who you look like to everyone else. Only to some. Others may find you attractive. Stunning. Lovely. Or possibly. Scary. Horrible. Gross. Ugly. Immature. But nobody knows. Only you do. Only you. You. Nobody else. You can feel it. You can see it. You know who you are. In yourself. Deep inside. Look there. Where that piece is missing. And see the hole. The one you need to stitch up. The one that can never be replaced. The one that burns and screams at every touch. It screams. For you. You. You only. It's the comfort that you feel when you cut. When you feel pain. It fills up that hole. For the time being.

    Sometimes, we forget. Forgetting is like rotting in an old dilapidated farm house. In the middle of nowhere. There is nobody. Nobody. Not one person. Not one. Who comes to save you. They leave you. In the cold. To die. To rot. To feel dead. And it's true. You do. I do. But I'm not out there in that old farm house. Somebody else is. And I'm not helping them. I'm not. Because I can't. I can't reach them. Find them. Hold them. Grab them. I can't take them out. No matter how much I pull they seem to just die off. And I'm left. Strewn on the floor. My hands dirty, and my eyes at half mast. Dead. I have taken their spot, as the forgotten. Now I am. I am. Now. In that barn. Dying. Screaming. Reaching. Pulling. But nobody has come yet to bear my burden. Nobody. And I drown in tears unmade. Don't forget. Don't. Forget.

    I don't feel it anymore. The pain. I just dont. It's like my heart has been shoved under the snow. And my chest. It's numb too. It spreads. Through my arms. Killing. Everything. And I'm numb. Completely numb. The blade doesn't make a noise. It doesn't make me feel. All I feel is numb. And I'm dying. Slowly. Falling. Slowly. But yet you still get up. Every single. Time. You get up. Try. Try. Try. Again. It's what you say. To try. I don't want to die. I don't want to try. I want to stay. On the cold ground. And just give up. Continue falling. Falling. Endlessly. And I don't think you realize. That I. Samantha. Cannot feel. Cannot get up. Cannot try. I fail. I fall. I am numb. And yet I still get up. Because I can't stay. I can't feel that pain. Even though I'm numb. I feel it every day.

    My eyes are focused on the front door of my overly large house. The roof loomes over me, casting a shadow on the porch. The one window that isn't covered is mine. All the way up in the attic. It's where I stay. Where I. Live. Breathe. Cry. Cut. Die. Fall. Not try. Sleep. I stay there. All the time. All. The time. My hand reaches forwards, and my sleeve pulls up. There they are. The scars. My feet. They have taken me to the dreaded home. Of scars. Of razors. Where I can just. Cut myself. More. I push the door and it opens. There. In the living room. My father. Sitting. On  the couch with his newspaper. Reading. His glasses. At the tip of his nose. His brown. Wavy hair curling to his shoulders. I shudder. I shrink. I become nothing. An ant. A burning lobster in the fire. The one that is to be eaten. As I should be.

    I close the door behind me. The darkness. It comes back. And I feel safe. Only for a little while. Only. For a little while. My fathers eyes. They bore. They bore through me. Like a scorching flame. It burns that hole. That one in my heart. I haven't seen my father. For so long. He wasn't home. Never home. Always away. Cheating. Smoking. At bars. On trips. Away. From me. And I die. Die inside. As he stares at me. Stares at me like a useless butler. Like a servant. I expect him to order. To tell me something to do. And all I do is do it. I have no other choice. No other. Choice. My mother. She's at work. My brother. Is at school. He is home. Waiting. Waiting for something unknown. Something I cannot try. To figure out.

    "You're home late."

    His deep voice digs a hole. It starts in my core. And suddenly. You can see through me. Like in the movie. Death. Becomes her. The hole. It's huge. And I cannot feel. I cannot feel it. I am numb. Like ice. And my heart. The hole. It's bigger now. And I need to cut. I want to cut. I must cut. Now. Now. Now. Cut. Now. Must cut now. I stare at him. My reply is stuck in my throat, and I don't open my mouth. It stays there. Never. To be spoken. I don't want. To speak. I haven't spoken. In so long. It's like. English. Is a foreign language to me.

    I feel deserted. Like nobody wants me. Like I'm useless. My father. He looks at me like a toy. Like a servant. Someone to mess with. I want to run. I want to cut. I want to go to the darkness. I want to surrender. Instead. I pull my hood. Tighter around my face. I pull my sleeves. And cover my hands. So that the scars. They wont come out. So that he wont see. But he already knows. I know he knows. He has known. For such a long time. But he doesn't know why. Nobody knows why. Only I know why. We're put on this world for a reason. But I'm shunned out. Like an alien. Someone stupid. Idiotic. Horrible. As a daughter. As a sister. As a friend. As a peer. As a human all together. I'm left.

    "Usually you come home before lunch." His voice continued like he hadn't heard my thoughts. Because he hadn't. Nobody. Not one person. Can.

    All I do is stand there. His eyes are still on me.

    "Are you going to reply, or just stand there like a stupid bitch?"

    My eyes become blurry. I'm trying. Not to cry. I don't want to cry. Not. Again. Like yesterday. When the tears were sticky. Hot. Never ending. Streaming. Like that painting. The one with the crying. Woman. And her frame was cracked. As is mine. Broken is the frame. That holds the picture. Of an outsider. Of someone not welcome. Alone. Gone. Shunned. Like me. My wrists tingle. They ache. With the need. To cut. I dig my nails into my wrists. I feel it. The blood. But it's not enough. I need. The razor. Now. I hold back the tears. My throat. Feels sore. The words. They come out. Sadly. Slowly. Softly. And horribly.

    "I'm not your bitch." They're raspy. Unidentifiable. Lost. Just like me. Then I run. I run. Upstairs. To my dark room. The door. I shut it. Lock it. Darkness comes. I lie on the ground. I close my eyes. I reach. For the table. It tumbles. Down beside me. And I feel it. The sharp edge. I grab it. Roll over and scream. I hear the footsteps. My father. He's calling. Shouting. He's angry. I don't want him here. I don't. I don't want him. I scream again. I cry. The tears have come. No longer held back. They just burst through. I scream and scream. The razor. It pressed. Against my wrist. For a fraction. I don't scream. I don't cry. And I tear. I am no longer numb. I feel the pain so fully that I scream again. The pain. It's hard. It's horrible. I've never. Never. Felt it like this. I tear again. Hoping. Wishing. For it to be different. But it's still happening. The pain.

    My door. It's burst. Open. My father. He turns on the light. The red blood flashes. In front of me. I tear and tear more. Slashing. Thrashing. Screaming. Crying. The blood. It burns into my carpet. Stained. Like my t-shirts. My father. He's screaming. Calling. My name. The tears. My tears. Combine. With his. His glasses fall off. He throws himself beside me. He grabbed my wrists. The blood. It goes to him. The pain. It's unbearble. It's not helping. I'm falling. Dying. Screaming. Pushing away my father. I slash my wrists more. Until the blood. My arm. It isn't visible beneath it. The razor. It's taken away from me. I feel my father. He's holding me. He's rocking me back and forth. Singing me the lullaby. The one I heard as a child. I try to get away. I try to find my razor. But it's not there.

    My tears slowly fade. The pain starts to go away. My breath is fading. And my dad is crying. I slashed wrong. I cut wrong. The blood. It's pouring endlessly. I cut. Down. Not. Across. My eyelids fall. I scream. I cry. I try to breathe. I feel sick. My dad is calling. The door. It opens. But I'm already gone. Dead. Falling. Endlessly. Towards a black hole. I'm scared. I'm screaming. I'm trying. For once. I want to stand up. I want to get up. If I had known. If I had known that my father still loved me. If he had only held me. Before I started. Started to cut. I would have known. I would have always known. That I wasn't. That I wasn't alone. And I never will be alone. Never. Again. Will I be alone.