Disclaimer: I do not Own Degrassi or it's character's.
Warning: Detailed suicide.... And alcohol abuse. :D
I'm rather proud of this, dark, depressing little story. :D
I wrote it, slightly inspired by the book " Cut " of which I just finished reading.
I also wrote it for a friend to show the dangers of cutting. D:
Anyway, tell me what you all think with a lovely little review!
[I also hope this entertaining little story makes up for the late chapter of my other fic. ^_^"]
He was alone.
Barely standing, he drunkenly stumbled into the living room of his apartment.
Nothing was going right.
There was nothing to live for.
Absolutely nothing...
His girlfriend dumped him.
The girl before that was thousands of miles away.
And the guy he had once had feelings for hated him.
There was no one else left in his life.
Alcohol was an alternative.
Alcohol was his only friend.
He plopped down on the couch and downed the last of a beer bottle.
It was warm. And flat.
Not good enough.
He opened another bottle, and downed that as well.
One by one, empty bottles crowded the makeshift, cardboard-box table in the middle of the room.
It wasn't helping.
Drinking away his sorrows wasn't enough.
He needed something else.
A substitute.
He scanned the room for anything.
Anything to relieve his pain.
Nothing.
The blond then stood up and stumbled into the kitchen potion of his home and began sifting through drawers.
He pulled something out.
A shiny, silver razor-blade.
He stepped back from the counter and over to the sink.
He pulled up his left sleeve, and held the razor-blade to his wrist, lightly dragging the edge across his pale, white skin.
Liking the feeling, he slowly began to press down harder as it dragged across the visible vein.
First it was only a scratch.
Then he applied more pressure.
This time it drew the smallest bit of blood.
The feeling was intense, yet soothing.
He pressed down harder, this time he dragged the blade across his skin faster.
Blood began to rush from the opening, just oozing and dripping into the sink.
It wouldn't stop.
It kept flowing.
He stumbled slightly, dropping the razor-blade and grabbed a few paper towels and pressed them against the wound, applying much needed pressure.
Blood leaked through.
Moments later, he started to feel light headed, and woozy.
His breathing began to quicken in pace.
This wasn't good.
He stumbled back, into the wall and slowly slid down.
He was crouched, still clutching at his wrist.
His heart pounded.
He grew extremely pale.
He tried to get back up and reach for the telephone but it was no use.
He only fell back onto the cold, kitchen floor.
He dropped the blood soaked ball of paper towels.
He cold feel his heart beat in his ears.
The beating slowed, as did his breathing...
The red, crimson liquid continued to flow, out onto the white tile, creating a small puddle.
He lay motionless.
The sharp breaths of air soon slowed to nothing.
The beating stopped ringing in his ears.
He was tired.
And finally at peace.
His eyes closed.
Peter Stone was dead....
I kill't Peter. :D Lovely, yes? Now....GO REVIEW!