We can take apart this life we're building

And pack it up inside a box

All that really matters is that we do it right now

Right now.

Au Revoir – OneRepublic

*I don't describe the blood and stuff. Sorry, but I couldn't. If its going to trigger you, please don't read it, cause I love you, and I just couldn't deal with that.

He was scared.

Maybe.

Not of them.

No.

He could deal with them and their secrets and judgments and their whispering in the corner.

He had always been able to deal with that.

He was just scared of himself.

Kind of.

Scared of himself, and how no matter what he did, everything around him just fell down. Just crumbled apart.

So maybe not scared of himself.

Just scared of everything falling.

Or maybe not even that.

Just scared.

Of most things.

Of everything.

Of dying too.

Of course he was scared of death.

But he was more scared of life, of living.

Of course, they eventually had to let him go home.

Free country and human rights and all that shit, right?
Besides, they just gave up on him as well.

Nothing they could do, and they knew just as well as he did.

At home, Dad started force feeding him.

No actual force.

But he could tell that know Dad knew.

And he stared when he said he wasn't hungry, and just the fact that he knew, meant sometimes, he just had to eat.

That's why knowledge was so dangerous.

That's why people could never know and that's why he could never tell them.

Never tell anyone.

(Not that anyone would want to listen of course no one ever wants to listen)

(cause no one cares)

(cause you are worthless)

(obviously)

Obviously.

But even though Dad knows about most things now, there are still some of the secrets.

There's still the hole in the wall by his bed, and a new one by the window.

And there is still places he doesn't check for blood or bandages.

Which is good, because Dylan needed to get of the red more now.

It felt like it was dirtier now, that it needed to be gone.

Needed to be gone right now.

And last time he hadn't bothered, cause he figured once he died, the red would die too.

But he hadn't figured on them finding him before he was dead.

And then the red was still there.

So he tried a different technique.

Red out first, and then, by default, he was dead.

It would work this time.

It had to.

He waited first.

For what seemed like forever.

Until they relaxed and figured things were okay, and sent him back to school, and stopped watching him at dinner.

He waited until they let down their guard.

(Of course they did

Last time there was eventually, cause they were only pretending to care)

And then he had no plan, because he was so goddamn tired.

But this time it was all figured out.

Foolproof.

No way to fail.

And the only person left behind would be Rosie.

And she would forget eventually.

They all would.

It felt like forever, but in the end, it was only 3 weeks.

It only took them three weeks to give up.

(really he had expecting it to be sooner)

(they were good actors)

Three weeks, and then he found the spare razor under his bed again.

The newest, sharpest, longest one.

He had never used it.

It was specially bought for the occasion.

He closed the door.

And wedged his desk in front of it, and a chair in front of that.

The plan would work.

It was kind of upsetting though.

He had no bathroom to go into, and the carpet would be stained.

Stained with red, but he knew that was okay, because he wouldn't have any, so nothing else would matter.

(never again)

(nothing would matter)

(nothing mattered)

The razor was a slivery grey.

He was glad.

It was a cold colour.

Cool against his skin as he held it against his arm.

Cool, as it held the power to free him.

To cut the surface of the cage that held him here.

It was reassuring.

It swelled over him and cooled his soul, and everything was blurry, but at the same time, so much easier to see.

Numb.

He was numb.

Numb as it broke the pale skin, and as he saw the deep red bleed out.

Slow, but he was safe in the knowledge that eventually it would all leave.

The second cut blurred into the first, and then he was no longer numb.

He hurt, and the blood came out faster.

The third one was quick, a slash, as the pain overcame the joy of leaving.

It was deep though, and the red seemed to be covering him, invading him.

He could smell it, and it seemed to be in slow motion as it dripped, splashed, into the carpet, seeping into the fabric, and the floor, and his vision and his mind and his ears and into

him.

He felt the dizziness again.

The dizziness he hadn't allowed himself to experience, that had thrilled and scared and freed him.

Like he was floating away.

And he wanted to float faster, as fast as he could.

So there was a forth, and a fifth, and then they bleed into one, until his hand opened, and the razor fell out.

Dimly, he realised he had been holding it so tight, that his hand was cut open, adding to the blood lingering around his body.

He didn't know why he had let go of it, but the world was blurring and he couldn't pick it up again.

He was much lighter now, and floating higher than ever before.

Floating away.

It was worth it really, the pain, and the red on his hands, and now the way he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and felt so tired. Worth all of that, cause now he could leave.

Leaving.

Though maybe, just maybe

(no)

(you are leaving and you deserve it)

This was called dying.

This was happened when you stopped living.

And he became aware of the blood leaking out of his mouth, and then he was vomiting, but it was more red, and he silently thanked his body, for getting rid of more of it, for making it happen faster.

He couldn't breathe.

Couldn't see.

Couldn't breathe.

Dizzy.

Dizzy.

Gone.

Gone.

This was gone.

This was what it was.

And he felt the

.

(…)

*A/N

This story is very personal for me, so yeah, um, that was hard.

But still, review?