Your pain stains the flawless white. You submerge the surface in your sorrows, covering it in marks that can never be erased. Your troubles pour out of you like a river, drowning the white sheet in your hand. You feel relieved, but not entirely. The knot is still inside of you, gradually untangling then abruptly doubling in size whenever you feel down. You can feel it lodged between your stomach and your chest like a rock, yet still a part of your body. When it grows, you don't want to do anything, eat anything. You can't. You try to fight the knot, but it persists. You give up. It grows. It controls you from the inside.
    The knot tangles you up with all your problems. It distracts you from working, from your life, from everything, to the point that you don't care. You are distant, you don't trust people. You like being alone in your thoughts, but sometimes, your thoughts are scary,  dangerous even. You want to be left alone, but can't find solace in solitude. You find ways to escape within your own mind. You give in, you try things that might help you live a different life, avoid your problems. You don't know if it makes you feel better, but you enjoy being a different person. In all honesty though, the greatest joy of it is not being yourself. It's temporary, but better than living in your reality.
    Reality is your worst nightmare. You feel like you're captured, as if drowning in your own life. You don't think there's anyone there for you, to save you from the waves of depression that push you deeper and deeper into darkness. You never know if  help will come, and though you want it to, you also hope it won't. Sometimes, you don't want to get better, you think it's easier to just give up.
    You pick up another piece of paper and admire its whiteness. You are attracted to the purity and simplicity of the white rectangle. It is more than that though; it is your canvas. Space is limited, but within it you have no boundaries. You control the paper, abuse it as much as you want. You enjoy that rush of power. You start again, holding your hand at an angle just above the desk. Your worries flow out, the stream just as intense as the previous time. You don't like how the page looks, but the feeling is worth it.
    You hold your finger over the white. The red drops form then separate themselves from your skin. You watch as they fly through the air in a perfectly straight direction, nothing obstructing their path. You choose their destiny, control where they will land and when. They simply follow your commands like slaves. You watch each droplet hit the paper, striking it like a bullet. It doesn't break the paper, but weakens it. The red splatters drenching the white. You hold your finger close to the paper and wait. You squeeze the finger with the other hand and wince. Another droplet forms. You smell the blood, it's like a copper coin. The finger is so close that you don't have time to watch the red shape fall. It makes a puddle, a perfect circle made of blood. You take a clean finger and dip it into the blood. Like an ink pen, you guide your finger around the paper, drawing a circle. It isn't round enough, not how you want it to be. You trace the blood-soaked finger around the imperfect shape again and again until the blood is dry. It's burgundy now, not the bright red it used to be. Everything darkens in life. You can't escape it.
    You crumple the paper and unfold it. The creases are the final touch. Without them, your work is incomplete. You look at the paper, then look away. You want to destroy it, so that your problems will be destroyed with it, but you know you can't. You crumple the paper again, and hide it. You would rather not face your emotions. Instead, you take out a third piece of paper. You hold it in your right hand, your fingers shaking as you trace the sharp edges of the rectangle. You carry your finger around the perimeter with increasing speed until you feel the sharpness splicing through your skin. Once again, you feel the relief travel through your body. You watch the red gradually spill over the page. It is soothing to see the bad coming out of you. It's scary. It's overwhelming. Your head begins to spin. Your eyes close. Your fingers bleed. You fall, and hope not to wake up.
    But you do. And the knot is still there. It is small, but you can feel it growing with each second. It pushes through you, gaining complete control of your every movement, action. It diminishes your passions, empties you until you feel almost invisible, and wish you were. You dread the days, hoping that they end sooner so you can free yourself from what little interaction you experience. Even in your dreams, though, it is never possible to truly escape. Your reality follows you wherever you go. You close your eyes, and it's still there, at the back of your mind but nonetheless prominent. You open your eyes, and it is even clearer.
    The clarity is overwhelming. Wherever you go, the pulsing, throbbing, in your head remains. You can't detach yourself from your adversities. They are engraved deeply into your mind and memories. The yelling, constant yelling. Throwing chairs, plates. Smashing doors. You close your eyes, but hear it just as clearly. Even when the light is blocked from your eyes, you see the empty bottles, lighters, suitcases. You couldn't hide from it then, and it haunts you now. You'd run into your room to save yourself from the ones you're meant to love. The door was a barrier, but not strong enough to distance you from the external rage. They were supposed to raise you, help, support, protect you. Instead, they have destroyed each other, and with that, you. And now, they do not know what happened. It's them. They did it. They don't understand. They try to help, but their help is worthless, detrimental. They don't want to know your problems, and you won't tell. They send you to strangers for guidance, but you resist. They push you, scold you, yell. Again. The sounds come back, as do the visions. The constant conflict. The breaking glass. They cry, you don't. You can't, and you don't want to. You've blocked out the emotions. They're weak, you're strong. You look away. They made your pain, and now you can't escape.
    You leave them, push past others, the people are a blur. You listen to your heart beats. You don't like their sound or feeling. You hope they stop. They don't, not yet. You need them to. You're tired, bored and worthless. You walk all the way up to the roof, your sanctuary. You look at the red tiles, a shade darker than the dried up blood. You shake, you're nervous, apprehensive. The fright distracts you from your misery. But then, you hear the yelling once again. That's it, the final straw. You're giving up. You stand, you close your eyes, fill your lungs, and spread your arms. You feel the wind. You feel it pushing, blowing you away. You hope it does. You stand on the edge, look down but don't see anything. You are above the movement, above all life. You need to think, but can't. You breathe in and walk straight. You move your legs but all that's underneath you now is air. That's it. You're done. You failed. You succeeded.