He wants to hurt. Badly. Self-inflicted, of course. He sits at the table, staring out the window, last night's horror fresh in his mind. A cut, a burn, a bruise, a break... Anything to prove he is still alive... That he still has his heart... That it did not shut off the minute he heard the news... He shudders, his shoulders slumping more, playing with the whiskey. The ice chinked within the glass, but he was trapped once again within his mind.
He feels nothing today. Betrayed or ignored by those he holds dear. Should not he feel something? Anything? Four friends gone, in the space of hours. Three to death, one to justice. A small baby orphaned, orders to keep away. One lifeline taken away. He sits there simply watching, waiting, though knowing it's too late. They are gone... All gone. He takes a sip of from the glass.
Is it worth it?, he wondered. This dance of chance, of life? He is unsure. Should he simply be the coward, and join his friends? Is it as easy as most believe? He is confused. The heartache he knows he should feel, yet the apathy that stands in the way, an oxymoron for no one to decipher. He's alone. No one cares, no one cares...
A drink of whiskey. He imagines the blade upon his skin. A deranged smile. His arms, chest, stomach and legs. The blood bubbling at the surface, waiting and wanting to flow. It would tease him so! It's not enough, to see it stationary, so he would cut deeper, and deeper, opening the surface wounds wide. "Be free!," he would say, happy that at least part of him could be that: Free! Seeing the stains upon his clothes, his skin, the floor would make his smile wider. But it would turn to a frown... it's never enough! Never enough... he continues, prodding the cuts with the edge, digging. Digging until the world blackens around him.
Awakening in his blood, hours later, he would find solace. Yes, he would find solace, if only for a little while.