A blade is a wondrous thing, don't you agree; the shiny, cool metal that you can see your face in, like a toaster. Only a blade is nothing like a toaster, a blade is death and it is sadness and it is cold against your skin. A blade wasn't right.
His mother's face was always shining in his eyes, burned into his brain a picture of the beautiful woman before she was overcome by alcohol, before his father decided that his family no longer mattered. Those beautiful blue-green eyes and that long, flowing blonde hair that made her look like an angel. His father didn't deserve her: neither did he. If he hadn't been a fussy baby she wouldn't have gotten overwhelmed and started drinking. He should have taken better care of his mother; if he had then she would still be with him. It was all his fault.
His father had left her alone to care for him as a baby, a toddler, all the way up until he stopped coming home at all when he was fifteen. He barely noticed that his father was gone as it wasn't that big of a change.
He couldn't even kill himself right. The blade had sliced his wrist and he sat on his bed and he had waited for heaven to accept him.
But he knew that he wouldn't be accepted by heaven for he had sinned. He hadn't taken care of his mother and now she was gone and he was taking his own life, another sin. He didn't deserve heaven; he didn't deserve to be happy, to be free. He didn't deserve anything.
When he had awoken in the hospital he had cried for hours, the one time his father had come to visit him at his home since his mum died and it had to be when he was almost dead, his pain almost gone before his trip down to hell where he belonged.
His father had given him a prescription for anti-depressants and sent him home, all the while calling him by his last name as though he were a regular patient. And he had gone home, but he didn't start taking the pills until a month later when he felt as though his soul was dead. He was dead inside now, what harm would these pills do?
He couldn't even be a Catholic right. He had sinned and he couldn't rectify this sin by going to seminary school. God had betrayed him and there was nothing else to it. He was dead inside, he always would be, and God had done nothing to help him.
He deserved the names that his boss called him; he deserved to be called incompetent because he was, he didn't save his mother, he didn't save himself, he was but a body walking around with nothing inside. He was shattered, and he was sure that his boss knew this. His colleagues believed him to be uncaring and more or less a jerk. He was. He didn't even deserve their thoughts.
His father died, he had not even known he was ill. Was this a blessing, or was it God spiting him and telling him that he would have just made things worse like he had with his mum. If he hadn't been born she would be alive, that's what he tells himself. His constant need for attention caused her depression.
Someone died in his care today. She shouldn't have died. As tears fall from his eyes he walks into the bathroom and he brings out his bottle of anti-depressants, just refilled today with one hundred tablets. He looked at himself in the mirror one more time, filled with hate for the man before him; himself. And when he lifted the bottle of pills to his lips and swallowed them all he reached for his shot glass on the table and washed the pills down with the vodka, one of the leading factors in his mum's death.
It was quick enough for him. He hadn't wanted to fail this time. And he didn't.