Shouldn't everybody care for everybody else? Aren't we, as humans, obliged to care for others from our species? That's what they tell you. At school, at home, everywhere. But it's a lie. It's all a lie.

Of course, I didn't know then. I just hoped that everything would be alright, that this torment would stop. I prayed, and I believed in the goodness of humanity. That someday, a hero would emerge and rescue me from this sick vortex of pain and darkness.

I was 13 when it started. It was slow at first, unassuming and virtually harmless. "It" being the monster that hid deep within me, the monster that I had buried years ago with the urge to cut my wrist, to jump of a building. It was coming back now. And it was getting worse. Day by day, second by second.

"Why didn't you ask for help?", I hear you say. I did. I talked to people. People that I thought understood. I told them about the monster, the one that kept me awake late at night and consumed me every second of the day.

Do you know what they said?

"Get over it."
"What's wrong with you?"
"You're just looking for attention."
"Stop being so sensitive."

And so it got worse. Every day when I came back from school, I would lock myself in the bathroom, and rid myself of all the pain and suffering that had been building up inside of me. Mama didn't care. She was too busy having the time of her life with another man she'd met at the bar down the street.You see, the trouble started not when I was bullied, but when I lost my friends. When, one by one, they went over to the other side. The entire year level teamed up against me. I was 11 then.

Fast forward 2 years, and I was drowning up to my shoulders in heavy workload and pressure from the kids around me I couldn't possible take. It was all building up to this moment. I remember that day as clearly as if it was yesterday.

It was a Monday. The entire class was at an exhibition put on by the senior students about what they had been studying in science. Physics, I think it was. And so, while everyone was going around looking at all the colourful displays of balloons and posters, I sat to one side, staring into space. A teacher came up to me. He genially asked if I was alright. I gave him a fake reassuring smile, one that I was almost too used to giving to everyone. He smiled back, asked me to tell him if I needed anything, and walked away. I had to gather up every ounce of energy I had to not cripple right there, on the linoleum floor of the classroom. My insides felt numb. The whole room was blurry. I just couldn't take it anymore. I was tired. Tired of how everyone detested and rejected me. Tired of how the last 4 years of my life had consisted of nothing but me falling into a downward spiral of depression, rejection, and sadness. I looked around me at all the happy, smiling faces of the people I so wanted to consider my friends. It saddened me to know that I had no one, not a single person to call my friend in this huge place of unforgiving stigmas and stereotypes. If it hadn't been for the bell, I might have just broken down right there and then.

I walked up to the school hall, my hands twisting violently within themselves, my body shaking uncontrollably. A girl from my class asked if I was okay. I nodded.

But you know how the breaking point comes when someone asks if you're okay? Yes, well, that happened to me.

The girl prodded on a bit, encouraged my my obviously flustered and red face. I shook my head even more, managed to choke out the words "I'm alright", before losing control. I was a literal mess. My eyes filled up with tears, and before I knew it, giant tears were streaming down my bloodshot eyes. I was a hot, blubbering mess of emotions. The girl backed away a little, clearly disgusted by the sight of the dejected loner finally giving way to her pent up emotions like this.

I don't know why that happened, and why I did it that way. I don't know why I couldn't have just held on a little longer, till the end of the day, like I always did. I guess I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that my life was a mess. I was a complete utter mess. I was a waste of time. No one wanted me there.

And no one cares now.

I used to be nice. I used to go up to other lonely people, see if we could strike up a chat, if we could be friends. But I have learned that you should only treat people the way they treat you. Being nice gets you nowhere in your already short, miserable existence.

The therapist, she said it was all in my head. It was as though no-one wanted to admit the fact that I was a victim of harassment. It was a taboo in that closeted society. And it still is.

The weather is bad right now. It's raining, and the wind is blowing. My mother is out. I haven't seen her in a while, now that I think about it. The dog is sleeping on the floor. It looks like it doesn't have a care in the world.

I know what I'm going to do.

I leave the apartment, my room neat and tidy, my possessions in their exact places. Nothing out of the ordinary. They'll probably think it was stress and anxiety. Maybe one of the scars got infected. Maybe I went out to get something from the shops, but the weather got me. There's plenty of explanations. I don't bother leaving a note. I doubt anyone would care enough about whether I live or not to actually read it.

I step into the elevator, and press the button for floor 40. This is happening. I have the knife with me. One final act of harm. The one to end it all.

Goodbye, world.