I see a knife blade pull accross the table toward me. I imagined its bloody side soaking my throat in new found glee. "No... " I whisper, but it's too late. I close my eyes and see the bodies of cell mates scattered and torn. "Don't... " but it did. I hear a scraping. It sends shivers up my spine. I open my eyes. My hand trembles, poised above my wrist. "Don't..." I whisper, but it does. _I am the last one to die, _I think. At least_ _I_ _deserved it.

I pull the blade accross my wrist. I wince, but before I can turn back the blade is in my other hand and coming toward my uncut artery. I feel a sense of warmth dripping down through my finger tips. Losing control, this second cut is not as clean. It becomes a twisting stab as my arms start failing. I end the night with one question echoing in my head: what went wrong? It doesn't matter any longer. I'm all gone.