Ryou had held the knife so many times. Over his throat, over his wrist, resting gently on the pale, porcelain skin, so delicate, so thin. So much life pulsing under the surface that could be ended so easily.
He doesn't want to live like this- no friends, no family (he hasn't seen his father in years), nothing. What purpose does he serve? Why does he continue to live?
The Voice's laugh echoes in his mind, loud and cutting and cruel.
He's too weak. He always puts the knife down.
It stays on the counter, gleaming, a testament to his failings.