"This is so screwed up..." Morgan shuddered, taking a ragged breath. She recalled the angsty,
surreal events of the night.
"It's not true..." she sobbed, pushing her hair back, mixing it in with tears and sweat.
Tears gently slid down her face, as she hopelessly collapsed against the wall. Morgan glanced at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were pinkishly red, and filled with a sense of loss, despair, and disbelief.
Morgan saw this girl. This girl who was sitting in alone in Morgan's bathroom, wallowing in shock,
and horror as everything she'd known since she was a naive little seventeen-year-old, was suddenly gone.
And she hated her.
She wanted to smash the mirror, with her own fist.
Morgan watched as her hand curled up, and flung itself at the mirror. All of her might went into the punch, until Mogan was overcome by pain, as her kunckles bled, and soon the whole bathroom was stained, brown and red.
Blood spilled everywhere, and for a second she forgot about her loss. Her sorrow.

Hunter's image flashed in her mind and she felt the tears come floating back.
"I miss you..." she muttered, closing her eyes, feeling the wave of exhaustion. 'He's gone and he's never coming back,'said the skeptical voice in the back of her head.
It was his writing.
He never wants to see you again.
You're nothing.

Suddenly she felt a semi-hysterical feeling came over her, and she found a thought come to her mind.
Fumbling for something sharp, she discovered a razor, and her evilly grinning face was gleaming.
Morgan's brain was unwinding. She was going insane, with grief.

She sat back down on the floor, and dragged the razor, down her wrist, and sighed with pleasure,
at the bitter-sweet pain that was shooting up and down her arm.

Staring down at her arm she gripped the razor tightly in her hand and pulled it down again and smiled faintly at the beads of dark rasberry blood trickling out of her veins.

With a sudden impulse, she lost her momentary bliss, and violently slashed her wrists wanting to see more blood, and hope that Hunter could feel her pain. She switched her razor to the slashing other hand and slashed the other blue veins.

Closing her eyes, she laid her head down on the scale, feeling no point to keep them open any longer. Moments passed and she felt the blood, and her life, steadily flowing out of her body.

Her brain seemed to close shut, ward off any noises or feelings.

It was just her now. Just her and her puddle of blood. And inside the puddle was emotions,
feelings.
A story.
Her past.
Her present.
But no future. There was nothing.
Just her.
And her puddle of blood.