***
There he was with a blade in his hand, He sat in his room, sobbing his eyes out. nobody was home, bad idea. which means nobody was there to stop him from doing it. He had full control, finally no distractions or anything else. He broke, a long time ago. He wanted it to all be over. He wanted everything to end. His suffering, his pain. And tonight was the night. He has been planning it for weeks. But still, he was scared. scared of the unknown. His eyes was full of water, his cheeks drenched in tears. The fifth almost empty bottle of vodka sitting right next to him as the other four was scattered across the room. He looked in the mirror in front of him. He hated everything about himself. His face, his legs, his arms, his wrists, his super skinny stomach, his neck, his hands, his shoulders, his head shape. He couldn't recognize himself. His head was spinning, his mind was a mess. He didn't feel fucked up enough. He needed more substances to cloud his mind. numb all the pain. his parents hid all of the pills away from him. This wasn't the first night like this. He tried and tried again, multiple times. Which meant 7 trips to the mental hospital. He hated it there, but he was for sure it would work this time. Because nobody was there, they wouldn't call the ambulance right away. He would've been dead by the time everyone got back home.
Even though people cares for him and loved him, he still felt very alone. like nobody was there for him at all. He took one last look at his slim arms, thighs, and stomach. They're all filled with faded, dried up, and fresh scars. It hurt to twist, bend and move his thighs and arms. He looked dead, he wanted to be too. nobody liked him at school, he was bullied for 5 continuous years. He had no friends to back him up either. His own twin brother was embarrassed of him, most teachers refusing to teach him and kicking him out of the classroom. He was basically humiliated everyday. On the weekends, he would stay in. The only sunlight he would get is from the very few classrooms he would be in, and getting in the car to drive to school. He stopped being the same after 7th grade. He was burned out and tired. He was lucky to even make it to the 11th grade. Everyday after a rough night he would tell himself, "don't let them see you like this. Wash your face and hide your wrists." every Monday he would tell himself to make it to Friday. Most days he would stay home tho. His mom made him go to school everyday after the 113 absences, letters, and the court case.
He never ate much either. He never drank any water, ate fruit or vegetables. The only time he would ever eat or drink if it was a bag of edibles and vodka. He wanted to feel numb his whole life. Too bad it's ending at just 17.. his birthday was yesterday too. He never came downstairs or unlocked his door. He never opened his curtains to let out sunlight, he never went outside to feel the breeze on his skin. He was never normal. He was weird, he was a freak, he was strange. His brother hated him, his brother was embarrassed of him, he looked terrible and terrifying. He ran his fingers up and down his pale, white face. Then through his black, knotted hair. He would never let it get matted as he never liked the feeling of it. He was never sober, he would shake every time he didn't drink. so he began drinking everyday, and every chance he got. The coke was the only thing keeping him alive and woke.
whenever he stepped on the scale, he would be disappointed. He wanted to be like everyone else. Happy and healthy. That was the opposite of what he was. A week ago, he was 112 pounds. today, he was 109. He lost 3 pounds just by not eating for almost 2 weeks. He would never find peace or happiness, and he established that about 3 years ago.
He turned away from the mirror and finally stepping out of his room just to go to his step fathers workspace. he grabbed a key out of his important drawer. He unlocks a cupboard, rummaging through the cabinet to find his dads small arm. He runs back to his room, closing the door and locking it. He drops the gun on his bed. He picks up the almost empty bottle off of his carpeted floor, gulping the alcohol down. Finishing it off as the liquid burns in his throat. Finally, he dropped the bottle on the ground. The glass rolling on the carpet slightly. He picks up the small arm and puts it up to his head. He stands in front of the mirror, his hands trembling.
He had his whole life in front of him, and he's ruining it all. He never knew how it got this bad, it just happened. Was he really about to do it?? or was he just a pussy? He knew as soon as he pulled that trigger, there was no going back. It would be all over. Just like he dreamed of for the last 4 years.
His finger was on the trigger. It was shakey. everything was a blur.
BANG. everything went black and he fell onto the floor.
——
"hey Tom, i have a gun to my head. dare me to shoot?"
