No one understood Dewey's turmoil; didn't realize he was even in any. In his family he found no comfort, refuge, or anything even resembling love. Only were things outwardly the same. No one knew Dewey had met his impasse.
In Dewey's heart there was always hope. However, the full confrontation was fruitless. There could be nothing further; he knew this.
He threw all his toys across the room or at the floor. Nothing else in his world was broken enough; as broken as him.
Disillusionment had never been his friend. Dewey always told himself stories; created his own friends, when he couldn't make real ones, or when his brothers were just too cruel; and he always liked to believe he'd have a fairytale ending with Francis. Suddenly everything felt hollow; Dewey gave up.
Francis was gone. Francis ...
Francis was fine. He was just fine. Until Dewey came in and messed up things, as he figured; Francis shouldn't have to worry about him. Francis was perfect; without Dewey.
Dewey grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and he took it to the bedroom. Then he repeatedly ran it across the neck of his toy dinosaur until it was in two parts. Finally, he hurled it all to the floor to join the rest of the mess.
Dewey breathed, calmed himself.
He had been deliberating for a long time, and now he was certain. He had every reason he could conceive. It was the easier option.
No one would get hurt. No one should care. He wondered who would even notice.
Dewey hummed pleasantly to himself, drowning out the voices screaming every reason Francis would never have him, as he left to and then returned from the bathroom with a bottle of sleeping pills, played Corelli's 'La Folia' (quite long, quite lovely, and with violin - the instrument of death), swallowed every pill, and finally laid himself down to relax and drift away.