Francis Combeferre stared into a mirror. He was clothed in nothing but his boxers. His eyes loathed at what they saw. Where there was the smallest bit of stomach flab, he saw fat. Where there was muscle, he saw extra weight. Where he saw his face, which happened to be fairly attractive, he saw a hideous monster.
They were right. He thought. I am ugly. Hideous. Fat. Weak.
A gleam caught his eye. He looked to it. A pocket knife, which Courfeyrac had given him, was reflecting the light of the setting sun.
"What do I have to live for?" Combeferre questioned to himself. "I live for God above; this I know. Is there anything else? Who loves me? Nobody loves me. Nobody wants me. Nobody needs me."
The intelligent teenager picked up the knife. The glimmer on it seemed to call to him. The sharp edge was lusting for his skin. He did it. One cut. Two cuts. He hissed at the pain, and then realized that he was feeling better. The pain in his heart was gone.
Another cut. One on his thigh. Another across his shoulder. A small one on his chest. He worked on the other arm, feeling anxious. Over what? He didn't know.
Blood covered his body. The strong, concrete Combeferre was broken. His hands shook as he drew another cut across his body. The blade dropped to the ground as he did.
"I am going to die." He mumbled to himself. "I will be gone..."
He stared ahead of him as there was nothing to do. It was too late. It was all over. He didn't even get to say goodbye to Courfeyrac or Enjolras. The two people who cared about him. He blocked out their love for him when he was depressed.
The front door opened. "Ferre, I'm home!" A familiar voice called out.
Combeferre moaned loudly from inside his room. He tried his best to catch his friend's attention.
"Hey, where are you?" The voice asked.
The bleeding man made the loudest noise he possibly could with the little strength he had. Footsteps grew louder as they neared his room. The door swung open to reveal a young teenager, fifteen years old, whose face turned from jubilant to horrified.
"Combeferre!" He yelled as he sprinted over to his friend's side.
"Courf..." Combeferre mumbled.
"We've got to get you to Joly!"
Courfeyrac hauled his friend into his muscular arms before running out of the apartment room. He ran down the hall, seven doors down, and kicked the door with his foot.
Combeferre was wavering in and out of consciousness. His blood stained Courfeyrac's clothes.
"Joly! Open the door!" Courfeyrac cried, tears slowly falling down his face.
A muffled voice came from inside the room. "For heaven's sake, Courfeyrac, this better be worth my time."
The door opened. Joly saw the body before letting out a yell of panic. "Get him on the table, Courfeyrac!" He said before sprinting off.
The young man carefully laid the body on the table. Combeferre reached up to touch his friends face. Courfeyrac grabbed his hand and kissed it.
"My brother, what have you done?" He mumbled against the skin of his wrist.
"I'm sorry..." Combeferre breathed.
Joly returned with a box full of medical supplies. "I have alerted Bossuet of the situation. He has gone to retrieve Enjolras." He said, pulling out cleansing pads and needles. His eyes met Combeferre's. He sighed uneasily. "I will try to save you, my friend. I will try..."
TBC