I keep getting bored with my books

Somewhere in the epitimy of heiness, the shaking hand of a girl grasped the rusty end of a razor and left it to hover above
her arm. No thoughts were there in her head but one:
3, 285.
3, 285.
No noise escaped her as she sliced the razor into the tender veins of her wrist. By now the blade had become encrusted with
dried fluid and blunted by years of use. Scraping it into her skin roughly, she sawed it across her skin until fresh blood
spurted from the newly made cut.
Raising her head in unexplainable pleasure, the girl rolled her neck and placed two of her fingers into the now steady
stream of blood.
Flowing over her urine soaked rags, she knelt in the warm pool and, if able to feel emotion still, she might have giggled.
Her chest pressed upon the stained wall, a single finger striped the wall in a sticky, running line.
3, 285 days.
3, 285 days.
Her hand fell back into her lap where her bloody wrist was already starting to congeal. Sinking low onto the floor, her
cheeck rested itself in the still hot pool of blood and closed her eyes. Letting her body relax into the comforting warmth
of her liquid life, the girl opened her mouth and let the blood creep slowly onto her tongue as she sunk into another
dreamless sleep.
3, 285 days.
3, 285 days.
3, 285 marks on the wall.