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He slid the blade across his wrist, his arms, his legs, thighs, everywhere. It felt... peaceful. It helped. In some weird, messed up way, it helped. The feeling of the warm blood slipping out of the cut and sliding down his arm helped him. He felt something. At long last. More... more... he needed more. Slitting his wrist time and time again, making the most of the canvas that was his arm. The warmth of the red liquid... the soft sounds of the dripping blood hitting the marble floor... it all felt surreal and yet kept him grounded. All he wanted was to feel. Was that so bad? The razor, the same one from the first time he cut, was still being used. He didn't think of this as self-harm. He thought of this as making himself feel. Like how people watch horror movies to feel the thrill of it. And then it all hit him. All at once, like crashing into a wall. His eyes filled up with tears and he dropped the razor, sinking to his knees. Why... he had the perfect life. Amazing friends, the best family, all the things he could ever want and need, and he hadn't even been bullied in... what, 4 years? 5? Why did he have to be so selfish. People don't have anything like what he does, and they don't feel like this. He's taking everything for granted, isn't he? Like a spoiled brat, never happy enough with what he has. And now, all the cutting... it was for attention, wasn't it? He needed the attention of everyone too now. Great. What the hell did he not want?! So damn selfish... He sobbed, the sound of the shower he had turned on but had no intention of getting in drowning out the sound of his cries. Wasting water now too, amazing. His heart bled and ached and hurt like hell, craving the love of the one he desired, a part of him doubting he'd ever get it. Why did he still have hope... idiot. He grabbed the razor and slit his wrist once more, deeper but not deep enough. Thinking about his one love... it hurt. And acting like everything was fine in front of others? Yeah, that sucks. Maybe he should end it, right here, right now. A part of him knew that his family would miss him, but another part pushed that thought away. He glanced at the razor, now only thinking of it instead of who he'd hurt when he leaves. Another cut, even deeper. Not deep enough. He didn't feel enough. He felt like hitting his head against the wall, and watching it bleed out as he lost conciousness and escaped this hellish world. But he wouldn't. He felt like stabbing a knife through his broken heart. He felt like tying a noose and hanging himself. He felt like jumping in the sea, never to resurface. He felt like overdosing. He felt like jumping onto the train tracks, eyes closed and prepared for the pain. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. How could he hurt the ones he loved? Then again, would they really be hurt? He was confused. Another cut on his arm helped him refocus. How much had he cut... he felt slightly dizzy. He put the blade down and reached for the bandages. Or at least he tried to. Yet, he couldn't let go of the blade. Clinging to it, as if it were his lifeline. Wanting to cut more, wanting to feel more. He could die from blood loss, or pass out. Either way, his family would find him here. Struggling with himself, he managed to put the blade down and wipe his still teary eyes. Weak. Useless. Idiot. He wrapped the bandages around his arms as tight as he dared, and secured them. Slipping into cleaner clothes, he turned off the shower, tossed his dirty ones into the laundry basket and went into his room, still dizzy. He gripped the razor in his pocket, feeling safe with it there. And that leads us to now. As he lays in the darkness, the world all around him silent. Tears slipping down his cheeks, and him not daring to make a sound. He felt like screaming, sure, but that didn't mean he could. Thinking of the day he would finally end it all, sleep embraced him at long last.

Freedom.