I've been depressed lately. My own life is the prompt for this story.
Trigger warnings: Implied rape, self-harm, harsh words, suicide.
He sat there with a knife in his hand. A voice echoed in the back of his head.
You've already experimented with cutting. Why don't you experiment with... Oh, say.. Dying?
He tried his hardest to ignore the voice, willing his hand to let go of the knife.
But he couldn't.
Instead, he ended up lifting it more.. closer to his throat.
That's the way to go.
Yet he felt like something else needed to happen.. He needed to feel pain, not a quick release. He rolled up the sleeve of his ridiculously over-sized sweater. He only wore the damn thing to hide how fucking skinny he was, and the atrocious scars adorning his body, from everyone else.
But it was different now.
He pressed the cold, sharp tip of the blade into his arm, evening out the pressure until he could pull the blade back and draw that putrid hue of red from his veins. He despised that color, oh, he despised it so much. He sighed when he felt the candy red liquid drip onto the floor. He made more marks.
One for being useless.
One for being a shitty leader and not preventing anyone from dying.
One for allowing that disgusting human to touch him.
One for... everything else.
He could sit there naming all of the reasons why he was doing this to himself all day, but he slowly felt the effects of bloodloss.
The voice in the back of his head was relentless.
Destroy your legs so you can't chicken out and run for help.
And destroy his legs he did.
He tug the knife into his calves, pushing it in deep, so deep that it scraped bone. He did it a few times on both legs until he lost feeling in them.
Now end it.
He shakily lifted the knife up and pressed it against his throat.
One quick jab to the jugular and it was over.
He felt himself fade away into nothing.