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Suicide
He looked outside
The world was peaceful. Everything was in place – all was shrouded by the shadows of the night. They were all in grey and black, their hues combining, joining. The velvet sky was unadorned except for the half moon dangling in it. It wasn't right... there was something missing. The stars. Where were they? There was no sign of them. No sign of their beauty. Their art.
Were they weeping for him? Maybe. These stars – they were his witnesses in the darkness. They knew. They know who he is, and what he lacks. They knew of the pain accompanying his every breath in the lonely night. He knew they were hiding behind those murky masses of clouds. They didn't want to see what he will do tonight.
He looked away from them. There was no point looking for them tonight. They can't stop him. Nothing can. In his desperation, everything was possible. Pain is welcome.
He turned his gaze to the dull piece of metal and held it tightly in his hand. His reflection stared back at him. Yes. A reminder of his inheritance. Inheritance from two people who claimed to be his parents. They never understood him, or his intentions. They didn't even know their son.
He focused his attention once more on the sharp blade. It was slim, and light. Its cold, smooth surface was the only thing he could feel in his hands. It was perfect – in his hands was an instrument of destruction. An instrument to destroy all the chains that bind him to his fate. He studied it once more, his eyes raking over the muted luster of the knife. The edge. It was sharp and keen. He looked at it with grim determination.
He striked.
The edge came in contact with the skin on his right wrist. He observed his wound and watched the drops of blood fall on the floor.
He smiled through his pain.
The intoxicating smell of blood lingered. He breathed it. His blood. He could see his blood trickling from his broken skin. It moved unhurriedly in a rhythmic movement. Slowly. Painfully. His blood was writing patterns on the floor.
Written in blood. Yes. He used to think of himself as a writer. A writer hidden from the world. Secluded. He believed that he was alone, even in the midst of the crowd. He was alone, for they were all strangers. Nobody knew him. Nobody tried.
Everything he wrote... he believed in them. They were the life flowing through his veins. What was their use? For others, they were words and words alone. They never understand. They said they admired him – his skills, his style, his fire. His ability to take words and claim them. Take them in flight.
It was all flattery.
It meant nothing to him.
He brought the blade back to his wrist. The pain intensified and the blood from his wrist dropped faster. He striked deeper. With desperation. Goodbye, numbness. Pain is a step closer to owning himself.
The smell of rust floated around him.
The stars still hadn't come. He couldn't blame them. From an outsider's point of view, what he did... well, it was horrifying. He wouldn't be able to offer an explanation for his actions. Reason ruined the world he wanted to live in.
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