Chapter 1
The sidewalk was empty except for one person. He was rather tall, about 5' 2, and if he wasn't looking at the ground, he would have been at least 2 inches taller. His name was Ivan Braginsky, and, for the most part, he was like any typical twelve-year-old. He went to school like everyone else, had a loving family as well. In fact, the only thing that separated him from the other kids his age was his appearance. Aside from being taller than most of his classmates, he also had wispy, silver hair, which was usually covered by the hood of his large, beige jacket; a tall nose; and a pale complexion that complemented his radiant, amethyst eyes. Unfortunately, because of his strange appearance, Ivan didn't have many friends, and was often the target of the other students' ridicule.
With his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, he hurried to get home. It had been another long day of school, and he wanted to get as far away from that accursed building as possible. 'Today's the day,' he thought. 'I'm finally going to do it.' He kept his eyes down, not caring about his surroundings. He just wanted to forget his classmates constant pointing and the sound of their taunting laughter. He wanted to escape. Gripping the lining of his pockets, he quickened his pace. The greasy smell of Wac World signaled that he was almost home. Turning the corner, he glanced up, seeing his home slowly coming closer.
Ivan stopped in front of the door. He sighed, then put on his best smile and walked in. His father was still at work, so, as usual, it was just him and his sisters at home tonight. His older sister, Katyusha, was laying on the couch in the living room, reading, while his little sister, Natalia, was sitting at the table in the dining room, fondling a small, light pink blob. Natalia looked up with a grin and raced over. "Welcome home, Ivan!" He patted her head. "Hey Bella, you seem to be in a good mood today. Did something happen at school?" She nodded, "Yeah, the new boy from Japan brought in some weird foods today," she held up the blob. "This is Mochi. I saved it for you." She tossed it to him, but he passed it back. "No thanks, I'm not hungry." She looked hurt, but quickly changed back to her usual cheery self. "Okay, I'll just leave it on the counter. I also got some Puccho and Yan-Yan if you want some." Ivan shook his head, saying he just wanted to go to his room, but then Katyusha called him. Ivan groaned, walking away from Natalia, and entering the living room.
"Yes, Kat?" Katyusha looked up from her book. Ivan read the title, Final Breath, by Kevin O'Brien. He rolled his eyes. Kat loved horror stories, and loved telling him little inserts from them, but he never understood why. "Listen to this, page 52: 'The test audience was split right down the middle- the ones who knew about your accident and the ones who didn't. The ones who didn't wondered why you were limping. The ones who knew about your injury didn't want to be reminded of it.' It's strange how when someone's hurt, people are either completely oblivious, or they just try to avoid talking about it." 'Oh god, if only she knew,' he thought. Katyusha sat in wonder, forgetting that Ivan was still standing there. "Okay, so was that it," he asked. His sister shook her head as if to wake herself up. "Yeah," she said before returning to her reading. Ivan nodded and walked up the stairs to his room.
Once in his room, Ivan didn't bother to lock his door; no one really bothered to check on him, anyway. That was why right now was perfect. He walked over to his desk and turned on his radio, setting his CD to repeat one song. Sitting down, he began his work. He grabbed a pencil and paper out of his desk drawer and began to write. He hummed to the tune coming from the speaker as he worked. Then, after setting his pencil down, he reached back into his desk and pulled out his butterfly knife. It was a simple blade with a golden-colored handle that fit perfectly in his hand. Taking the knife, he walked over to his bed and sat down, staring at the ground. "Am I really going to do this?" he mumbled. He had thought about it many times, but the thought of what would happen after death scared him, forcing him to stop. He opened the knife; the small "click" the handle made as the two halves came together gave him a shiver. He removed his jacket and slowly brought the blade to his arm: the cold metal threatening to pierce the soft skin.
He paused, trying to remember the good things—anything that could stop him. He thought about Katyusha, and how supportive she'd always been, at least, when she wasn't reading. Then there was Natalia. They had always been so close; how would she grow up without him? But the thought of his sisters were quickly shrouded out by different thoughts. He thought about how he hardly ever saw his father, and how, even when Ivan did see him, they never spoke. He remembered the bullying that he had to suffer through every day at school, and how no one—not even the teachers—ever tried to stop it. He began to cry. Out of everyone he knew, only two people seemed to slightly care about him, but even they never noticed just how broken he was. As a crash of cymbals began the chorus in the song, Ivan dug the knife into the tender flesh of his arm and dragged it down; the wound travelled from just below his elbow to his wrist. He grimaced, but he knew it wouldn't be enough, so, painfully, he took the knife in his other hand and cut again on the other arm. Knowing he only had a few more minutes to live, he laid down to study his handiwork. The dark red blood oozed gracefully across his paling arms as it dripped onto the bed. Soon, he began to feel cold, then dizzy, then nothing at all. Ivan had finally escaped.