Do you want to know what it's like, being me? It's like getting your arm ripped off by the strongest person you can think of, and then watching it get shoved down the throat of a wood chipper. Except that you can still feel it, even though it's not attached anymore, and it's a thousand times worse than you ever thought it would be. And then, instead of your arm, it's your heart that's being shredded into useless little pieces. After that, imagine, in place of somebody strong doing all of this, that it's a girl you really, really love, and she's not that strong at all—which you know because you've been there enough for her when she was feeling weak.

That, but worse, is the story of my life. Of course, that's only if you take out the fact that, following this, I'm in the middle of a forest, it's raining, and even I can tell that I smell like a wet dog. Don't forget that it's all because the only person who could make me go back home is standing next to the wood chipper. Actually, in a way, I guess she's going to marry the wood chipper.

It's kind of pathetic that I lost to someone who's really not even alive, isn't it?

I don't want to think about that right now, though. I've thought about it too much already. Actually, I've thought about a lot of things, not just Bella and her bloodsucker. It's almost nice, being alone like this, because whatever is in my head is my own. Then again, nothing that's been up there has ever gotten me very far in the past.

But I really, really don't want to think about that. That's why I'm here in the first place.

Do you want to know what it's like, being me? It's like getting stabbed three, maybe four, times in places where it really counts, and all you want to do is die. The problem is that right after, you're getting stabbed again, repeatedly, and it hurts so much that you can't. You're in so much pain that you just can't die. When you're laying there, surrounded by almost all of the people you've ever known, they feed you some crap story about this whole thing making you stronger in the end. They don't get that it might have been you stabbing yourself all along. You don't really get it, either.

I don't want to think about that. I don't want to think about how much simpler things would be if there weren't vampires and werewolves and Bella Swans.

Do you want to know what it's like, being me? Trust me, you don't, because it's like wanting to go home so badly and then realizing, all of a sudden, that you can't. You can't go home because a part of what you like about that place is gone, and it won't be coming back.

That, mostly, is the story of my life, and even though I don't want to, it's the only thing that I can think about.