There it laid. The needle. The sewing needle to be exact. The needle I took from my mom’s sewing kit in the kitchen closet. I stared at it as it laid there, so small, on my white desk. I had so many thoughts racing through my head that I couldn’t process what I was thinking. Was I even thinking at all? My heart was beating so quickly, I swear it was going to burst through my chest at any moment. I was alone. In my light blue room, the music playing softly from my radio. My mom was most likely sitting in her bed, watching reruns of her favorite tv show, getting ready to fall asleep at any second, and my dad was probably in the living room, doing his night time stretches, before he went to bed.

There I was, 8:45 at night, standing, staring at that needle. So small, but yet a dangerous threat. I gripped the edge of my desk so hard, my knuckles turned white. I slowly reached for the needle. I examined this small weapon in my hand as if it was a foreign object. Slowly, I moved it to my wrist. There it was, my wrist, barely meeting the tip of the needle. Here I was, so close to fulfilling what I was longing for: satisfaction. I didn’t need to do this, did I? Yes. I decided this was the only way out. I moved the needle slowly across my wrist, forming a small pink line across it. I wanted more. I pressed harder this time. After all, pain was what I deserved to feel right? I was failing at life, this was my punishment. I ran the needle back and forth on my wrist, more eager to cause pain with every movement. Then the pain started to penetrate through my wrist, the tingling sensation spreading to my fingers. A small trail of red started to bloom across the line the needle had imprinted in my skin. I was a fugitive and this was my refuge.