Can't even die properly

    He sat alone in the bathtub, in water the temperature between scalding the skin off your bones and perfect, contemplating his next move. "What the hell is happening to me? Maybe the world will just be better without me" . Slowly he grabs the knife, the same one he performed the protection ritual with. Ironic that, when the one thing he needed  protection from was himself. Setting the blade against his alabaster skin he pressed down, almost as if trying to cut through bone. Pressing harder onto the skin, the blade did not waiver and yet the skin did not break. "What the hell?" he thought, realizing he was indeed failing at even killing himself. Looking at the blade and running his thumb down the edge, as one is keen to do when testing sharpness, realized that he could't cut even the softest of food with the damn thing. Looking down at his arm he noticed the only damage done was a scratch that looked better than the ones the damn cats give... "I am a failure. I can't live properly and can't even fucking die properly."