Shit, shit, shit. He grabs at his hair, pulling harshly. Jeremy - sweet, impossible to hate Jeremy - had called him a loser. Him, Michael Mell, Jeremy's best friend since who knows when? Get out of my way, loser. Michael lets out a pained cry, sinking down against the door of the bathroom. He can hear Jenna Rolan knocking on the door from outside, demanding that he be done so she could use the restroom.

"I'm on my period!" he yells back, putting on a high-pitched voice - it's not hard. The tears in his eyes are making his throat close, and his voice squeaks at the end of his sentence anyways. There's a beat of silence before Jenna whispers to take his time. He can hear her walking away. No, no, please come back! I can't- don't leave me along! Please don't leave me alone ... please? Michael lets the tears flow, throwing his head back against the door, hard. He's disappointed when he opens his eyes and only finds a small bump.

"Go away. Oh, God, please go away," he whimpers, holding his head in his hands. Everything is too much, it's just too much. He wants nothing more than to just disappear, to find himself back at home, playing video games with Jeremy. Before the whole squip incident, when things were okay, when Michael was okay. But he still finds himself on the floor of the bathroom, breathing heavily. He gulps, trying to get enough oxygen - he feels light-headed. Too much oxygen? he thinks, feeling himself begin to shake.

Damn it, Jere! You know how bad my anxiety is! Michael clambers to his feet and begins pacing the cold tiles, hearing more people outside of the bathroom. They're knocking, and the knocking gets louder, matching the voices in Michael's head perfectly. You're worthless. A nothing. You're the reason Jeremy was never popular - if he had left you alone years ago, he would have never been a loser.

"SHUT UP!" Michael screams, falling to the floor again. The knocks stop at once, but the voices stay. They taunt him, sounding like Jeremy. Loser, loner, stoner, waste of space. God, he's such a loser, even Jeremy knows it. That's why he's outside, grinding on a bunch of girls and getting drunk off his fucking ass, instead of helping Michael calm down. Because Jeremy, Michael's Jeremy, the Jeremy before the squip, would realize that his words would cut deep.

Cut deep ... wait.

Michael's eyes fly to the mirror. Slowly, he gets back to his feet, suddenly feeling calmer than he had been. Shakily, he walks towards the mirror, balling his right hand into a fist. When he's close enough, Michael throws out his hand, feeling the glass shatter under his skin. It cuts him, making his hand start bleeding - it's fast, it's warm, it's a lot of blood. Michael can't help but smile as he reaches down to take a piece of glass off the floor. Loser. You think killing yourself is cool - what if Jeremy finds you?

Well, Jeremy doesn't care about you anymore, so why does it matter?

You know that's not true!

Prove it.

When the voices in his head don't answer him back, Michael straightens his back, a glass shard in his hand. Slowly, he lifts his sleeve, feeling his heart start to pound. He hadn't cut himself for a year now, not since Jeremy had walked in on him trying to hang himself and flipped shit. But now, now Jeremy wasn't around. Or, he was - he just didn't care that Michael Mell, his ex-best friend, was about to bleed to death in the bathroom while he danced around with girls.

Taking a deep breath, Michael presses the shard to his skin. He presses down, hard, and drags it against his skin. It doesn't hurt. Why doesn't it hurt? Michael doesn't dwell on that, instead doing it again. And again. And again, until his arms are nothing but blood and cuts. Michael can't even tell where his skin is anymore, too dizzy and empty to do anything but laugh.

Yes. Laugh.

He's shaking with laughter, staring at his own arm and looking at the damage he had caused. Tears fill his eyes, but Michael can't tell if they're from laughing or crying. Maybe both? What have you done? Oh, God, Michael - what the fuck have you done to yourself? No, no, no, you can't die! You haven't left a note- God, a note! Mom, dad, Jeremy ... shit. Text him. Text Jeremy, right now! Maybe he can save you!

Michael doesn't waste any time, already texting Jeremy before he knows what's happening.

Michael: I'm sorry. God, I'msorry. Everhing will be alwrite soon.

Michael cringes when he sends the message, knowing he made so many typos. But he doesn't have to wait long before Jeremy texts him back.

Jeremy: wtf? what's happening? why are you sorry?
Michael: shit dude, I fucked up. Ifuckip up im sorry
Jeremy: Michael your scaring me
Jeremy: Michael
Jeremy: Michael
Jeremy: Michael?
Jeremy: I'm looking for u, where are u?
Jeremy: Michael!

Michael can't help but laugh again as his phone slips from his fingers. He sighs tiredly, dropping to his knees and laying on the floor. He almost doesn't care that he's lying in his own blood. Everything else is too much for him to think about it. He can hear his phone buzzing every few seconds, then his ring tone blared across the bathroom. Yelling, from outside - it sounds like Jeremy. Michael smiles, holding his arms close to his chest.

There's a knock on the door.

He ignores it.

Another knock. More urgent.

He closes his eyes.

The sound of a door breaking down.

He sighs, feeling his heart beat slow.

Yelling. It's Jeremy, shaking him, begging him to wake up.

And Michael smiles, because it's such a Michael Mell thing to do...

"MICHAEL!"

... Die in Jeremy Heere's arms.