He looks down at his arms, cuts, scars, blood. That's all he sees, that's all he feels; the warm but cold feeling of the blood trickling out of his cuts and down his arms. He sighs. Nobody understands him. Nobody understands him. Red passes through his mind. He looks down again; red stares up at him.
He runs his hands through his hair. His make up smeared across himself; his arms, hands, and face from wiping away tears. His eyes are blood shot. He thinks about his life, purple. That's all he saw purple. He took a knife from the shelf and makes a nice little line on his arm, purple stared back at him.
She walks in and touches his shoulder, letting him know she cares. She offers a friendly smile. He turns and wraps his arms around her, anger and sadness melting away in her embrace. He will be ok. And she will help. 3
He wheeled into his room, and placed a hand on his knee. He pleaded for him to stop and calm down. A concerned look was exchanged. He pulled him in for a hug, telling him everything. He promised help, and begged of it. It was going to be ok. 3
