𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞 | ✔

The end of Unknown

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TW: severe depression, self-harm,  etc!!!

ƪʃ

I'm stumbling into the dimly lit room, with a bottle in my hand. I could feel him all over me, ever since.

Ever since.

When I run a hand through my hair, it comes out slick with sweat. The lamp flickers, threatening to give out. I take a long fucking swig because it helps. Blood is thrumming through my nerves all the way to my head making it throb. The sofa is blurred but I can see the papers pinned to the wall with colours on. 

I used to hate painting, I'd always preferred felt tips and crayons. That fucking face paint.

I slam the bottle on the wooden table, not caring about scratching it because after all I'm dying aren't I? All of this won't matter in a while. I'm not ill, I haven't got any fucking terminal disease. Instead, I have myself, and it seems to be the worst fucking thing of all. 

I rub my eyes hard, pressing down to feel the dull ache that comes from them. I feel like pressing down harder, until I completely fuck up my eyes and claw them out. I would do that. I can do that. 

I drag my nails down from my eyes over my cheeks in an attempt to draw out blood. My father said I had a pretty face, which made me want to ruin it. So here I am. Although my vision is blurred, I look through the small mirror on the wall seeing red on my face. I smile, wider than ever. I smile for the best shittiest reason I have. Because I want to.

Before I collapse onto the sofa, I take out my blunt pocket knife and throw the blade first onto the wooden table, so it digs in and stands freely without support. In my front pocket is a back of fun fucking colourful pills. I take them out emptying the lot onto the table, which is probably germy as hell. It won't matter anyways soon.

Outside is pitch black, and the windows are open allowing my darkness to crawl in.

I thought once the Italians helped me kill my father it would be gone. But no, they were here to stay.

"Be a good boy for daddy." 

The wind caresses my neck and I shoot up looking around. Fuck, I need to hurry up and take these. I rummage through the pile trying to find the right one. I swallow.

The dry powdery texture, a comforting contrast to my father's- fuck I can't even think about it. I swallow another quick, resting my head back on the sofa. I feel the world slow a little more, just to my liking. Sweat trickles down my temple and gathers in my palm.

I feel rough fingers on my back causing me to arch away from the touch. He's dead but I feel him. My heart is thudding loudly in my ears as I wrap my hands around my body. I dig my fingers into my back trying to scratch away from his touch. When I can reach I shout, I yell, my eyes burn with a wet feeling of the weak. I press my feet into the wooden table as I try to scrape away the feeling. I still can't reach it. 

And I feel agonisingly numb.

I kick the table with my drugs across the room. Fucking wasted and broken. I stand up shouting, swearing, cursing for all those fucking gods out there who never once showed me any mercy. Why did they have to do this to me? Why did they single me out? My fingers curl around the strands of my hair and pull.

I pull until I feel it all rip. I pull until I feel blood dripping gloriously down from my sides. More red. When a drop falls into my mouth, I don't taste anything metallic. Instead, I taste the sweet floral scent I remember her having. Then I see her eyes, soft, green, oceanic eyes that had a raging tsunami in them. 

I would have never been able to look at Santos. I would have never been able to live with his disgust and venomous gaze. Fuck, he probably wouldn't have been able to live without her anyways. Killing him did me a favour and him I guess.

"Come on, don't you want to thank daddy for your gift?"

The caress of the wind turns into a pinch- I feel his fingers pulling the sides of my eyes. When raise my hand to scrape the feeling away I find nothing of the sort, only a concoction of sweat and blood.

I draw my hand back, looking at the sheen of blood coating my fingertips. One side of my lips pulls up.

More.

There's blood all over my forehead, the chunks of hair I pulled out still on my head but matted with blood. 

Then I feel it kick in. The euphoria of the drug parades through my nerves, taking hold over the reigns of the voices. I hear new voices now- a voice I listen to.

And when my hands find the gun beside me, they hold onto it like my new best friend that's about to help me.  I flick the safety off.

My nostrils flare as I breathe in and out, my index finger hovering over the trigger as I press the gun to my temple.

It's the only fucking way out.

And,

           I pull the tri–

//

please talk to someone if you're struggling, no matter how small you think your problem is. you are always valid. I love you all.

remember, villains are made, not born. It will never excuse their actions, but it can help you understand.