I stumbled to the bathroom and grabbed for a razor, I shook and cried as I tried to break it apart. This was it; this was what had kept Kelli going for so long. Finally the blade was there, sharp, gleaming. I took it to my arm and cut in rage. And the more I did, the more I hated myself because….it felt good. Why was it only now that Kellie was dead that I could understand her, understand why she did it and why it helped? I was too late though. Was this it now? Was this how Kelli felt, every day? My blood flowed, dark and thick. It was horrible. How could this be helping me? What the fuck was I doing? How on earth could it be the one thing I hate could be feeling this good? I felt so free, for a short while I could forget that I had lost my best friend. Eventually I stopped crying, it hurt too much to cry, I remembered things that Kelli had said about it feeling numb; this didn’t, this hurt, like hell, stinging. But not as much as I hurt inside. I remembered I once promised myself that I would never cut, it was worthless, and it ruined people. I swore that no matter how hard it got I would never turn to self harm. What a hypocrite. I hated myself but I needed to do it, I needed to bring that razor into my arm, hard and fast, I pushed as hard as I could, as if getting rid of the blood would get rid of the pain, the longing, the self hate. I missed Kelli so much, I missed her and I loved her. Why did this have to happen to me? From then on I knew that I would never be the same, I would depend on blades, on seeing the blood, I would become addicted just like Kelli, and it would be the end of me.