Goodbye to all that.

... goodbye to all that I am so tired of this, she decides. Tired of undergoing treatment, tired of having to be so reliant on people, tired of being made fun of, and tired of herself. She hunches over her study desk and drags a penknife across her pale white wrist lightly. It traces a long jagged path across the sun-deprived skin. The crimson blood that starts seeping out from the uneven wound startles even herself. She doesn't realise that she'd cut herself deep enough to break a capillary. She examines her limbs in the mirror. Dark, angry bruises map the location of the cruel needle stabs she receives when she undergoes chemotherapy, a cruel atlas reminding her of the pain that is to come with each passing day. Never mind, she says to her reflection. I must be tired. I'll just sleep it off. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Her reflection

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