Where should I start when all I can think about is just an end?

Maybe with, hey, I'm Six. Just a number. I once had a name. A voice. A face. All gone. Doubting. Fearful. Counting. Thinking. Just me and my head. Like my old laptop, the memory is full. Spit it out. Everything. So I sit in my shed. 2 cm thick, old wood. Everything that surrounds me. Everything that protects me. Freezing cold in winter, hellishly hot in summer. A thousand times safer than my apartment. 20 months. Almost 21. Quiet and silent in my cell. And still no end in sight. Your hate was once my strength. It's time to get it back. Or maybe that's the next shitty decision. Every second the same. That fine line between burying myself deep and I rule the world. Black and white. Fuck it. This shitty ending has to be here somewhere. Any ending. As long as it's an ending.