"Starving artist," is what Raj called him. Such a cliché phrase. But cliché for a reason.
Stuart really was starving. He never made enough money as an artist to support himself, and his comic book store only barely stayed afloat. And sadly, he had been homeless more than once. He truly knew what that term meant.
He had nothing. No talent or money to his name. He barely had people he could call friends.
Nobody cared about him. They kept him around if he was useful and tossed him aside as soon as he wasnt. He didn't know what unconditional love meant. It was always conditional and rarely love.
He didn't go back to Howard and Bernadette's house today. He knew they'd be busy with the baby. Raj, the baby's godfather, would be there. If Stuart didn't come back they wouldn't notice. Actually, they'd be glad. Especially Raj. After everything Raj said to him at the hospital, how could he not think that?
Stuart knew he was a nuisance; knew he was hated. He sat on the floor in the back room of his store (there was no furniture, only cardboard boxes of merchandise), his back up against the wall, and rubbed his thumb over the flat side of the razor he was holding in his hand. Stuart hated cutting with razors. He hated the thought of the slicing open of his skin. He preferred using keys. They were more of a scratch than a slice.
But tonight, Stuart held a razor in his hand.
He hadn't used it yet. He was scared. But he wanted to use it. He raised his left arm and pulled back the sleeve on his red plaid shirt. He placed the razor blade on his inner wrist and gently started to press down, not moving it. He felt the edge break skin and winced slightly. He lifted the razor and stared at the little spot he made. 'That wasn't so bad,' he thought.
He pressed the sharp metal again to his arm, next to the first mark. This time, he held it there for a moment, and, hesitantly, began to pull down. It hurt. 'Well no shit it hurts, dumbass!' He told himself.
He didn't stop though. He pressed harder. It felt weird. He kept pressing and pulling, trying not to think about his skin and veins being sliced like a piece of meat. The blood was pouring out faster and faster. He finally pulled away to look at what he'd done. It hurt, it was throbbing, and it was... gross. Blood gushed out onto the greyish-blue thin carpeting, pooling before it could be absorbed.
He switched the razor to his other hand and repeated the process on his other wrist. Blood was getting everywhere now. He almost couldn't even use his left hand. His fingers were cold and felt foreign. He could barely hold the razor correctly, but he managed.
By this point Stauart was getting tired. More than normal tired. He couldn't move very much. He dropped the razor and closed his eyes, feeling sleepy and calm.
Ding! He heard the bell from the front door chime as someone entered. Oops. Guess he forgot to lock it. He knew he put the closed sign up though, so it had to be someone he knew.
"Stuart!" Someone called. It was Raj's voice. Ugh, what was he doing here now? "Stuart? Where are you? It's your turn to do th-" he stopped and gasped sharply. "Oh my god! Stuart! Stuart, no!" He tried to stay conscious, but couldn't.
'Oh well,' he told himself. 'What did you think was gonna happen? That no one was ever going to find you? Someone was going to know sooner or later.'
Stuart drifted off, hardly listening to Raj's cries. The last thing he heard, barely audible, was "I'm sorry."