Splashes start to appear in my cereal bowl. Its 7 AM, I have a tumbler half filled with vintage scotch whiskey, on the rocks, in one hand. A knife in the other. The tears start to cloud my vision now. I push the whiskey to my lips and savour the harsh taste. I hold the knife to my face and shave away the weakness my eyes are showing to the world. A rouge, bold colour seeps and swirls around my breakfast milk like an infection. What is the point of living? What is there to live for? In a rage of anger and disappointment the glass crushes in my palm and carves new scars to remind me of the painful memories. Still clutching the knife I stagger towards the mirror, watch it as I lift it to my throat. This is it. I gouge the knife into the reflection I have studied for so long. Change is imminent. Change is my only option for survival.