I made a promise, long ago, to a god I no longer believe in, that I'd never give up. No matter how lonely or desperate or helpless I ever felt, I would never take my life into my own hands.

Now my religion is gone, and the deep void inside my chest is back. I ache with every breath, my throat constricts as I cry, finally finding tears for myself.

And I want to give up. I want to end it all right now, banish any question I may have about my future by taking it away.

There isn't a single person in this house that truly wants me here. They question why I leave sometimes, and I honestly don't know. I feel alone no matter where I am; this place I call home, sitting quietly in backseat of a car, ignored until needed, sitting on a now empty bench in a park I once shared with parts of my very soul.

I feel so detached. I have no connection left anymore.

Yet I'm not brave enough to take my life, and I hate myself even more for that very fact. Sometimes I want nothing more than to just slip sweetly into that eternal rest, to give up. But no matter how much I dream for the slumber, I'll never have it at my own hand. I'm not even brave enough to do something like that.

I remember once saying that suicide was the most selfish thing that someone could do. But now I finally see. When you get that low, you don't believe anyone really would miss you. You think the effect could only be positive. Once you're gone, life gets easier for everyone. And that's why you do it. One slice of a blade, a few pills, one revolution of a metal chamber against your skull. It's that easy. One simple action, and life is better for all.

But is it? I can't convince myself that my presence here is doing any good. I honestly believe that once everyone got over the shock of it all, things would be better. But I can't do it. I can't even do something that would make everyone happier.

I hate myself. The end is wanting to die but having no way out. I'm trapped here, in this hell, in this worthless body, and I have nowhere to go.

That is the end.

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