Summary: Covers those five or so minutes Billy was left alone in the doctor's office towards the ending. Billy's POV.
Warnings: Violence, language, major spoilers.
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Equity
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I was never the trophy child.
I stutter, I'm ugly, gangly, bad at sports; my mind's constantly adrift, so I wasn't particularly good at academics...
Is it so surprising I want to die?
Past tense. Wanted to die. In a way, I'm already dead. When mother finds out I was with a girl... she'll have an attack, and then I'll have that to add to the list of Things that Were All My Fault.
Suddenly, it's freezing. I grab up my legs by the knees, pull them to my chest. Freezing, frigid. It's the Big Nurse. She controls the temperature, the time. She's helping me feel as horrible as possible.
How did I let McMurphy talk me into this? I slug myself, hard, a blow straight to the forehead. It's my fault I'm in this situation; not the Nurse's, not McMurphy's. I really deserve to die.
I glance around the room. No guns, knives, nothing. The doctor must have known better. I pick absentmindedly at a scab on the back of my hand. It flicks off, and warm stream of blood trickles downwards. A few seconds later, it drips to the floor.
Licking the blood away. I've never done it before, but it seems right, now. It tastes oddly metallic, like a penny or something. It's extremely temperate, and it seems to somehow warm my whole body.
He's a doctor, for god sake's! I quietly open a drawer, looking for a scalpel, or whatever those little knives are called.
Nothing. Desperately, I fling open another drawer. Too hard, too fast. It slams to the floor. I wait for someone, maybe the Nurse, the doctor, a patient, one of the black workers, but, to my surprise, no one does. They must be preoccupied.
A large glass vial shattered in the crash. I eyeball it. I don't like cutting myself with glass; it just doesn't feel right. Cigarettes and knives are for everyone, the lowest scum; glass has something of a beautiful connotation to it, and I am most certainly not beautiful. But, I'd rather go against the grain than kill my mother. Imagine. She did everything for me. And what do I do? Sleep with a girl! Trash, trash, total and utter trash.
The gush of blood warms me considerably. And some say that dying is cold...