Just walking down the street hurt. Jogging in the park was difficult. Getting ice cream, a joy, bothered him. Seeing kids with their parents was unbearable. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the pain, the anger, and the emotions in general. He didn't understand why he had to live like this - why he was the one who was abandoned. He couldn't comprehend the fact that it happened to him and not someone else. "Why," he thought, "is my life such a fucking failure. Why is it that my parents didn't want me? Nobody wants me." He was upset. He was angry. He was jealous. Not just now, but all the time. Every second of each minute, every day of the week, every month of the year, he felt the pain and abandonment. He couldn't take it anymore. His own feelings, ones that he had every right to feel, were what pushed him over the edge. They caused his decision to end his life.
"I'm doing it. It's not like anyone would care. It's not like anybody would know, anyway," he thought. He found himself in the back of an alley, knife in hand, completely ready to take his own life. He was not going to give up this time. He was going through with it, and that would be that. He was alone. Nobody understood how he felt, or could convince him otherwise. The pain, anger, and jealousy. He was the only one who felt it – the only one who knew what it was like. "I deserve everything. I deserve this." He cried out, the knife sinking into him just below his left shoulder. The pain was instant and horrifying. "I deserve this," he thought, "I deserve the suffering, the pain, the torture." Despite the pain, his grip tightened on the knife, dragging it sideways. Slowly, agonizingly, he cut across his neck line, just below the bone. Stopping once he reached the right shoulder, he pulled out the knife. He thought he should be dead by now, watching all the blood pouring from his body, almost as if a red wave crashed against the wound from the inside and leaked out through it.
He continued on, however, determined to end this - to end himself. Bringing the knife close once again, he stabbed himself right in the middle of his chest. The knife piercing his trachea, it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Quickly, he dragged the knife downward, continuing past his stomach and stopping once he reached his waist, screaming. Continuing from there, he twisted the knife sideways, causing him to cry out again, and brought the knife to the right, then back to the center. From there, he cut through to the left, watching as he practically dissected his torso. He definitely should have been dead by now. He should have been dead long ago, so what was it that was keeping him alive? The pain finally caught up to him, and he screamed one last time before passing out, still dazed and confused.