"Why? Just... why..?"

They all say I'm sick. How am I sick?
I just imagine the way people would look when I do something to them, that's all.
Like for that girl.
If I had already graduated from high school, I would have beaten her to a pulp and stomped my heel into her irritating face.
That disgusting face.
That betraying face.
Like I did to my own.
If they all think I'm sick, never talk to me again. I imagine a lot more than just that.
I kill myself every single time I cry.
If there was such a thing as the thought police, I'd be arrested and imprisoned in the psychiatric ward long ago.
I'd be arrested as a serial killer.
A murderer.
The young girl who turned her heart black before entering high school.
The girl who never really knew what love was.
Besides the fact that she would kill herself over and over again to try and find out.
She wanted to know what it was.
She didn't believe that it was actually something that caused nothing but pain.
But she was able to meet a someone who gave her even a tiny bit of hope.
That someone didn't want to show her any of his feelings.
Only showing her the cold and cruel side of this 'love' that she wanted to know about.
That I wanted to know about.
I thought...
"Why? Just... why..?"