"IT WAS THREE HUNDRED PERCENT!" Another inside joke he didn't get. God, he felt like such an outsider now. He had waisted a whole year torturing himself, while they were all having fun. Should be feel bad, or guilty, for wanting to just storm away from them right then and there? Did he still have the right to even call them his friends? Did he really? After everything he had done to hurt them, he must not. "Hey guys, I think I'm gonna to home now." He said. It was odd, he didn't correct himself. He would usually say something like; "Actually, I change my mind. I am going home." But this time, there was nothing. He just left, left without even waiting for a reply. Where was his knife? He continued walking home, thinking about what would happen if he were to die. If he were to just, to just die, suddenly, and could watch? What would be see? Would anyone even care? Did anyone even care? He kept walking, and thinking about everything that happened. Thinking of how the people who claimed to care about him, in the end, simply didn't. They didn't care. Once he was at his apartment, he rushed inside, and began looking for his knife. Not one he used for cooking, no, one he used for cutting. Cutting his wrists. He rolled up his sleeves the moment he found the sharp object. Why was he doing this? That was what someone would ask if they found out. They would say it's okay, they would try to apologize, they would ask a bunch of questions. Well, maybe he just needed someone who actually cared about him. Who didn't just say and pretend they did, while they sit by idle, when for all they knew, he was dead. He just needed someone who actually cared. He winced as the knife cut deeper than he usually let it. Physical pain was much better than emotional pain. It was actually kind of fun to watch the blood trickle down his wrist like that. He cut again, and again, and again, over and over until... until his entire lower arm was covered in deep, very deep, bleeding, cuts. What if he weren't cutting his wrists? What if, what if he were allowing blood to flow from his throat instead? Would anyone kind having him gone? Or course not, no. No one cared, even if they said they did, no one cared about him. And besides, red was his favourite color. God, he he's he needed to stop this. He needed to stop cutting himself, to stop imagining what people would do if he died, to stop avoiding any help. But he couldn't, the pain felt like pain should, it hurt. Despite that, he loved it. Hurting his arms like this, it seemed to make his emotional pain disappear, even if only for a second. If he simply focused on the pain, and harming himself, in the blood trickle down all over his arms, his other pain disappeared. Being hurt physically was better than being hurt emotionally. God, if only someone had cared for this boy. If someone had cared about him, instead of simply neglecting him after his disappearance... Maybe he wouldn't have brought that knife to his wrists again and again for nights until he was caught. He just needs someone to care. Is that to much to ask?