I've improved my story and can you tell me what you think of my story so far.. (its a ruff draft) and an unfinished attempt. Okay here it is……..

I wanted to scream, the pressure breaking the bare skin on my scarred wrist. I looked down to see, tiny droplets of dark red blood flowing out of the fresh slit. It’s my only escape. I jumped up to get to the sink to wash the blood from my new work of art. I turned the cold tap on; the water splashing down into it rinsing in and out of the unbelievably painful new cuts. I moved up my arm producing more and more, I couldn’t stop. I feel like I am drowning and my only saviour is the knife. The pleasure I get when I slide that minuet blade across my wrist is breath taking.
No one is home today, as Mum is at work, Alexandra at her friend’s house and as for Dad. Dad died last year, a hit and run. He nearly made it but even if he did the doctors said he would be paralysed as he broke his spine. Things haven’t been the same since Dad died, that’s when I started…self harming.
I know deep down that this isn’t the cause of it; I guess things have just been building up inside of me. I know this doesn’t make me feel this way; it’s just my only escape at the moment. It makes me feel at least partially ‘normal and loved.’
I brought the blade to my wrist again and swiped, the blood once again flowing out of me, it was a certain sick, twisted pleasure of numbness that made it feel right. The pain began increasing again and again each time more painful. I bit my lip to stop my silent screams. The blood ran down my arm like a stream flowing its natural course; I looked down, this cut seemed to be much bigger, more painful. The pleasure is the perfect essence of absence and the beauty of the pain fills me to a point where I cry out. Loud. Sharp. But free. The blade curling over my skin is enough to bring a little light to that vapid work of darkness that surrounds me. That tinge of sensation and the tickle of pain are just enough to open my eyes to the horrible world around me. The blood casting against my skin pleases me. I am still alive and it is still possible for me to feel, something at least.

I clamber to my feet, staggering over to the sink gripping tightly as I look down and see the crimson base of the sink, my wrist flinching as the pain becomes more out of control. The sensation travelling through my wrist the feeling of excitement. I clutch my wrist to my stomach as the pain becomes a little more intense, I buckle to the floor and lay there motionless in the silence of the whole place. The cold hard floor touching my bare skin, the darkness of the room. The pain subsides and I lay there, still.

Critical comments and helpful tips welcome
Thanks in advance xD