Sick & Twisted

Stone Cold

{A/N:} I'm so terribly sorry for updating so late! I'm planning a wedding and things have been really hectic! But, here she is!

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Didn't give her all my love,
I guess now I got my payback.
Now I'm in the club thinkin all about my baby.
Hey, she was so easy to love.
But wait, I guess that love wasn't enough.

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Kendall slowly looked at himself in the mirror; his green eyes a solid color. There was no life to them, not as there was life to them either way, he tightly gripped onto the sink in front of him. Taking in a deep breath, his eyes closed as one solid tear left his right eyelid. Nothing felt real anymore, nothing felt sane. It was as if, he was living a lie. His touched his cheek, the degree of the burn causes his hand to easily fall away. He tried to look at himself, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't look himself in the eye, let alone the mirror.

He left me, Kendall sorely whispered to himself. It had been a week since the fire, and he was in a foster home. A new place to live, but that only made him feel worse inside.

His eyes were a bright puffy red, and suddenly he lifted his arms to his waste, gently pulling off his rugged red t-shirt. Sores and bruises were finally healing, but the mental scars were still there.

He looked down in the cabinet drawer from the corner of his right eye; he tried to look away. He tried to leave it alone, tried to ignore.

Don't do it, he told himself silently. Don't touch the drawer. He was smarter than he looked. With all the woman in the foster housing, he knew a razor was somewhere.

He didn't wanna look.

He wanted to stop,

But as much as he wanted to stop, mentally he WANTED to turn off the light and drift to sleep, but he didn't have the strength. Falling to his knees, he viciously tore the drawer open, seeing nothing but band aids and hair supplies. He sighed of relief, what had he been doing to himself? Running his fingers through the piled supplies, he stood to his feet. Kendall looked to the mirror, cuts from the razor and cuts and bruises from the fire collided; is this really what his father made him out to be?

A self harmer.

Slowly putting him dirty t-shirt on, he rubbed his hands through his hair. He looked at himself, proud. Maybe this was what he needed, a place away from harm. Harm from himself. He knew that if he continued, that he would die.
Sometimes when he put that razor on his wrist, he did attempt to die. He wasn't going to lie to himself any longer, he didn't want to, but he felt like he was better off.

But then Rebecca came.

And helped him.

She dragged him out the fire without even thinking, she tried her best to save him. That astonished him.

Somehow in the back of his head, he was grateful but now: all he could think about was getting better. It was something to take his mind off of everything.

He closed his eyes, letting his brim eye shut and in a split of a second: he was asleep.

Silently his opened as his body fell to the floor and suddenly he didn't want to move.

He wanted to stay healthy and that is what made him feel so upset with himself.

He wasn't normal and he never would be. He stretched out his muscular arms and yawned; silently looking down he closed his eyes and falling onto his butt, he softly drifted into sleep.