i felt really crappy with my last story because ugh it was so bad. so here have some suicide.
Malcolm sat in the passenger seat, with his backpack in his lap, seatbelt off. He can't remember the last time he ever even wore his seatbelt. He never really cared anymore. He looked out the window with a sigh, and covered his hands with the sleeves of his sweater. He looked at the trees and the houses. The windows were all covered, but he knew inside there must have been at least one house where the brothers' were normal. Where no feelings were fucked up. His green eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, staring back at himself. His white, white skin looked almost translucent with his red eyes and his dark circles underneath. He looks tired.
Reese sat beside him, leaning back, one hand on the wheel and the other fumbling with the radio. His hands were sweaty. Since the AC broke down about a week ago, he settled on having the windows down. Except for today. Malcolm didn't know why, it was the warmest day of the year and Reese decided to keep in all the sweltering heat. Perhaps he noticed Malcolm wasn't feeling well, and that's why.
Didn't matter, or make a difference. Even though Malcolm's sweatshirt was the thickest one he owned, he was sure there was goosebumps all over his skin. He was so cold. He sunk lower into his seat, he needed to get home quickly. They were almost there, just a few houses more and they'd be at home where he could pretend his feelings weren't real.
Malcolm eyed Reese, who's eyes were plastered onto the road, slight goofy grin playing on his lips. He let out a little in-audible sigh. How could he be so happy in a world so hateful? How could he live knowing that no matter how taboo it was, you couldn't control who you loved, no mattew how much it killed you?
Malcolm reached into his picket. His razor was still there. He didn't know if he should be hapy or sad. Or if he would feel anything at all. There was already the raw, agonizing pain, that brings tears to his eyes. ...Couldn't be that bad, right?
As the car slowed to a stop, Malcolm let go of the razor and grapped the straps of his backpack. He was the first one inside. He almost wanted to cry. It was so soon. He was so young, he was only sixteen, he had so many things he wanted to do. But it was the things that he really wanted to do that encouraged him to use the razor to it's full potential.
Reese followed Malcolm into the room, and once they were inside, he asked the question. "Dude," he said, "Are you okay? You've been acting weird lately." Malcolm didn't know how to answer, so he shrugged it off, mumbled something about growing up. But Reese only shook his head, and urged on. "Really, you can tell me."
Malcolm kept his mouth shut for a long time, avoiding Reese's gaze. But he sighed and answered. "I don't want to talk about it right now. Later."
Reese smiled sadly. "I just have to shower. I'm going to shower, and when I'm done, I'll be here, and we can talk." But Malcolm can only nod and mumble something that sounds like an 'okay' before his fingers turn back towards the razor in his hands, but he waits until he hears the water running to take it out. Holding it in his hands, he contemplates if he's really going to do it. The small metal tool is so small yet so dangerous. He's surprised he hasn't accidentally cut his finger yet. Malcolm takes a deep breath in, his parents are sleeping and he hasn't said that he loved them in a few weeks. Maybe he should go tell them. Or maybe he won't.
He takes a deep breath in, and puts the razor to his fore arm, and starts to cut. He has to go quick. He starts with an I, then moves on to an L, and eventually the words spell out I LOVE YOU, REESE. He spends extra time on Reese's name, pressing a little harder and making it perfect and beautiful. The pain is searing through his veins, coursing through him like acid. But he only smiles, because now it's out there, and he didn't have to tell Reese himself. Malcolm took slow breaths, his vision pooling with black and the blood dripping off of his arm and onto the floor and the bed below him.
As the last of the color drains from his face. He smiles, almost crying. He was so happy to leave, to not have to face his problems everyday. But most of all, he's happy to be dead. Because there's no way he could've carried on knowing that he was truly, and madly in love with his own brother.