I never wrote a full story before, my mind wouldn't allow it.
As a consequence to writing anything, my real life experiences long suppressed bleed through the words I sketched.
Why must I write?
I always hated writing as a child because I couldn't express anything I felt comfortable sharing, not to mention my poor grades, I felt sub human and my fellow students reminded me of this often.
Why do I continue to live when I clearly want death?
A blissful end of existence, Peace. Maybe it's the judgment of God keeping my blade at bay. Maybe it's the connections I would have to sever...