Will I be happy when I'm dead? The question rebounded through his skull. He had been thinking about it for a while now, asking and wondering, hoping and praying that it could be true. There were so many things that he needed forgiveness for. So many things that he wished he had never done, never said. The pain of the regrets, the hatred and self-loathing he felt for himself; all of this was what had led him to where he was today.
He felt the burning sting of another cut and looked down numbly as he watched himself opening another red slash on his wrist. It didn't really help, but it was the only way he knew how to deal with it all. After a lifetime of pain and loss, he had become so numb that he would do anything just to feel something, anything. All of these thoughts tumbled through his head as he drew another long line across his skin.
He was starting to feel light-headed from blood loss. As he began to drift into unconsciousness, his mind went back to that terrible moment years and years ago when everything he had loved and known had been destroyed or taken away. The day his mother blamed him for, the day his father blamed him for, the day he blamed himself for. The day his father walked away and never looked back. He didn't know exactly why his father had left. All he knew was that he, a 7-year-old boy, was the reason his father disappeared forever.
He woke to the sound of screaming and shattering glass. It had been happening more and more often, getting louder and more violent every time. He huddled miserably beneath his blankets, silent tears dripping down his face as he felt his mother's cries of pain and fear rip through him, tearing his mind apart. He squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could as he waited until it ended like it usually did; with his father storming out the door, cursing and shouting that he was never coming back. Every time before this, his father had always returned the next day bearing flowers and an apology. His mother would break down crying and let him in the door, closing it softly almost as if she was afraid any unnecessary noise might set him off once more.
But not this time. For days after his father left, his mother would sit by the door, waiting for him to return. She wouldn't eat or drink no matter how he begged her. It was three days before she spoke again. When she did, it was so quiet he almost didn't hear her at first. "Mom?" he asked hopefully, wondering if he had just imagined it.
"Your fault," she whispered harshly through her parched throat.
She whipped her head around viciously as she practically shouted "It's your fault he's not coming back! He left because of you!" she shook her head sadly "It's all your fault" she whispered once more.
The boy froze in shock, not because he couldn't believe the terrible accusation his mother was leveling at him, but because she had voiced aloud exactly what he had been accusing himself of. He ran from the room, tears falling freely from his face as he felt her words, undoubtedly true, searing through him.
As the memory ended, the boy flew back to wakefulness and the dull throbbing of the crimson bands blanketing his wrist. Deep inside, he felt the familiar, wrenching, agony every time he recalled that day so long ago. It was obscured by the physical pain of the mutilation he caused to himself, but no matter how intense the pain, it still couldn't completely cover the feeling of loss and the weight of the blame he forced upon himself at the behest of his mother.
Again and again, he had persecuted himself, until eventually, he reached the edge. That inevitable moment when he finally accepted that he was worth nothing. His life was worth nothing. Worth nothing to his mother. Worth nothing to his father. Worth nothing to himself. He hated the disgusted, accusing look in his mother’s eyes.
He felt around on the bed for the well-worn knife he had been using, the knife his father had given him for his birthday so long ago. He closed his hand around the blade tightly until it sliced into his palm not even wincing at the pain. He was just so tired. So numb. He gazed at the blood dripping from his palm with a blank look on his face as he fought an inner battle with himself. His face changed to an expression of calm acceptance as he made his choice.
He placed the knife once more upon his skin. He drew it across slowly, over and over again until there was no more skin, only blood. Blood, and a mixed crisscrossing of terrible gashes that blurred as his eyesight dimmed and began to grow black. “Maybe,” he whispered to himself as his soul cried out with joy as his body’s hold on it began to slip. “Maybe I’ll be happy. Maybe it will be better.”
His departure from this world was as insignificant as his life in it. There were no inspiring final words. No regretful thoughts of never telling his mother that he loved her. No final acceptance or forgiveness of himself. No sudden realization that he was not the sole reason his father had left. There was simply a final, shuddering breath, and he was gone forever.
Author Notes: Never really wrote very many stories before, so if its terrible I'm sorry.