Nothing.

The sun slowly crawled over the horizon. Off in the mist, a dog barked - a car passed. The depression was hitting me with full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.

The apartment - what was left of it - was a filthy, dank den that smelled of burnt metal and musty farts. The mattress was exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to have - all sold for crank - the room was empty with the long shadows of a prison.

I lay on my bed with a cigarette in my hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I had nothing. Nothing. My family hated me. I could not, would not, fall in love with anyone. But, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I had attempted since my move to Tijuana had ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my own sick mind.

The loneliness draped over me like a cold, black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits that I had throughout the night.

What is wrong with me? I thought.

I began thinking of all the routes in life I could had taken - remaining in Los Angeles, keeping a job, becoming a writer, or even making movies. All those nostalgic plans had crashed into failure. Everything I had attempted ran to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile and vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into an explanation of the dope addicts I associate with. All they cared for was their drugs and whatever they do have, it was never enough (As for me, it was never enough - ever) – so, they would go after my supply like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.

I wanted to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.

I tried to focus on the future.

One time, long ago, I had great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young lover, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all which faded into mist. I had no future.

Over the years, I had acquired the mental state of such downward bleakness, that whenever I did think of that hopeful future, I was met with a dark, cold abyss in my mind’s eye instead.

The depression sunk me lower on those spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there was no point? I should just die. It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen by these damn naco junkies.

My face wrinkled into worry and sadness. I looked over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.

I picked up my only meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Looked at its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. My rage began to blossom. It was this shits fault. All the fault of this fucking addiction I had acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattered it against the white-washed concrete wall.

I yelped and leapt out of bed to the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! I have to go buy another one from some bitch I couldn’t stand. I looked at the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a saddened, kindred spirit to the little fucker and I just killed it!

Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing.

Nothing.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and pulled a butcher knife out of the drawer. I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would have forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents didn’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

I stood grasping the knife, clutched it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel was cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow.

Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck was I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a ragged towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain began to throb. I was embarrassed more than anything - mortified at the foolish attempt that I had just committed.

I walked into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.

I went to the corner farmacia to buy a roll of bandages from an unconcerned clerk; returned home to wrap my arm.

Shortly afterwards, I sat in a nearby park. Kids played, vendors sold balloons and frozen flavored ice, couples strolled in love, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. Around me the beat of life.

I sat there like a disgusting stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression.

I held my head, cigarette dangling from my lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life - hell, I even failed at ending it.

I stood up and walked over to Coahuila Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.