=Scars Writers play god with whole worlds and its people; Doctors play god with men's lives. I knew a few moments of godliness when I held my own death in my hands. I don't remember anymore what drove me to that point (isn't that odd that I'd forget?) but ten years ago I wanted to die; And seized by that thought, possessed and obsessed, I threw open my drawer of surplus and grabbed a pink plastic razor for the job. "A razor, a blade" was all I had thought and my fingers tore and broke plastic to free those cheap blades, though not without spilling blood for my pains; And one wasn't enough — my bloody hands desired another, and I had two shiny trinkets for the oarman. And holding each blade between shredded fingertips I felt I finally had power over my life because I held the keys to escape, and it stung a little but it did not hurt though I hurt within and I wanted to hurt without so the only use I sought with this power was a means of relief, because that's really all such power could bring. And with blood everywhere, it wasn't hard to draw more, in fact, it was so easy to draw that fine blade across my wrist. I had felt no pain as I watched my skin slice open and the blood pour out in an even red wall. And I felt no pain and I felt no pleasure but I felt relief to know I had begun it. And that arm bathed in vibrant red initiated the other arm into the bloodsport and together, they took turns alternating strokes, a clever little crew team, that moved to the cry of "Stroke, stroke, stroke!" And slice after slice brought more and more red across my two wrists and up along my arms but no wound went too deep, because I had lazily thought, "The next one will be deep. On the next cut, I will die." But I didn't — I passed out. Wouldn't you know it: I failed my own f***ing suicide! Like everything else. Jesus, I couldn't do anything right. But Christ, what had I done? The horror of being committed was too much for my stupid Asian sensibilities and I knew I would be if I were found out. And chagrinned and shamed, I cleaned up my mess and bandaged my cuts and threw out the razors and laundered my blankets and clothes and curtains (how the hell did it get on the curtains?) and wore long sleeves for a month, and rolled up my sleeves only in private, and kept my shame private til it faded to faint white lines along the unseen insides of my wrists. And the damnedest thing... When I woke encased in clotted blood, I still could have done it, but I didn't really want to die anymore, at least not that next morning; I almost felt relief. Maybe it's a good thing I failed — except now I'm still here.