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Daniel took the letter he had written and slid it into his desk drawer, he didn't do it.
This Corbyn person helped him more than he knew he could've, he was good at his job.
No wonder he worked at the suicide hotline, his voice was soft, it was calm.
The brunette boy sighed at the thought. If it weren't for him he wouldn't be breathing anymore.
It sent chills down his spine.
He walked over to his bathroom mirror he saw puffy red eyes, messy hair, pale skin, parted lips.
Disgusting.
He rolled his eyes at himslef and washed his face, which he had to wash exactly eight times.
The water was cold, almost numbing. He wished he could feel like this always. As if someone splashed him with a bucket of cold ice water so he could wake up, wake up from this nightmare he called life.
One through eight he splashed his face, feeling the fresh liquid down his face, and suddenly he found himself start to wonder.
He wondered if Corbyn had a good life. Surely he did, if he was able to help others it meant he atleast put himself togheter.
Gosh, he really needed to stop making this dude so important.
The brunettes parents would be home soon. He was the only one who still lived with them.
His brothers and sisters moved out, they were successful, not like him. They probably pittied him to.
...
Mornings were miserable for Daniel, he woke up, blinked exactly eight times, or an even number at that. His ocd wouldn't let him out of bed if he didn't. He liked to describe it like a scratch in your brain. He didn't have a job, and he hated seeing the look on his parents's faces.
He usually skipped breakfast. He liked the feeling of drinking water on an empty stomach.
Daniel stretched out and pulled the sheets off of himself. Got up and immediately looked at himslef in the mirror in front of his bed. Always desperate. He touched his boney collarbone, it popped out of his skin so evidently.
Shaking his head. He slid his hands past his waist until he reached his hip bone.
