The text being sent to his mother let out a little chirp as it parted ways. That was the only sound in the house, save for Zoe's kitten, Sunny. She was running up and down the stairs in a mad frenzy that his sister referred to as "the zoomies." She insisted the same thing happened to dogs, too.
Connor slid under the covers of his bed, letting out a stupid little whine at the pull the movement had made on his arm. He had cut up the vein, and blood was beginning to crawl out of him. It was cathartic and also completely exhausting. He curled up under the comforter, holding his arm to his chest.
The boy had perhaps never been this pale before, not that he could remember. Connor always had been paler than his classmates, yes, but never this bad. It was dumb, especially since this was what he had wanted, but fear blossomed in his belly. Even though the cut was not as deep as he had intended, he was still going to die if he didn't stop this. He grabbed his comforter and wrapped it around his arm as a makeshift bandage. Once this was done, he picked up his phone again and dialed an ambulance. The blood was already soaking through the blanket.
Something in Connor was screaming at him to stop: to not exist was all he'd ever wanted and this was a way to make that happen. Still, yet another voice was telling him to keep himself alive any way he could. So, that's what he did. He began to listen to the second voice, the one urging him to survive, for instructions.
Picking up the blanket, he wrapped it even tighter around his arm and headed downstairs. There, he waited for the ambulance to arrive. It took Connor a long, long moment to realize who the second voice was: it was the lady on the other side of the 911 call. He wasn't sure if he was doing everything she was asking him to, though. It was hard to concentrate; things were getting blurry and he allowed himself the luxury of lying down. Despite being aware of the lady firmly telling him not to, he shut his eyes and drifted to sleep easier than he had in months.
When he woke up, Connor was in an all white room. His mother was asleep in a chair next to him, but otherwise they were alone. His arm was bandaged better than he could have ever managed.
A few minutes passed like this: Connor curled up in bed, the too-white walls and beeping machines consuming him. He felt sick and a little blurry.
Then, his mom awoke. Connor heard her give a small sob, and he reluctantly turned to look at her. "Oh, Connor!" She cried. "I-I have to tell them that you're awake. They want to move you to the psych ER as soon as possible. Oh, baby..."
Connor felt his stomach drop, and this time, he turned and vomited off the side of his bed.
What a great way to preface this new part of his life.