That was it. He couldn't do it any more. He couldn't handle the looks, awe, hate, disbelief. They were to much.
He rarely ventured outside of his room now. School was over, and that year had simply exhausted him. So, amazingly enough, he was relieved when it was over. He could get away from his fake friends, his "loving" teachers, his fans and his enemies. They were all memories now, he didn't have to worry about any of them attacking him when he left his domain.
Here, at his house, the other residents ignored him, an odd blessing. He could think, do what he wanted, without little insects hounding him, telling him it was to dangerous, he mustn't to that. He was sixteen, with the world on his shoulders, weighing him down.
The blade held in his hand was small, simple, unglorious- everything his so-called "life" apparently wasn't. He loved it. The simplicity, the bare nessecities, nothing unneeded. The sharp edge gleamed in the moonlight, the only source of light in his dingy room, which held only a small mattress, a threadbare blanket and his trunk, holding his prized items, his things. The only things that represented his life.
He got up, and opened the large chest. Inside were 5 items. A cloak- smooth silvery and light, the characteristics of an invisibility cloak. He had used it so many times, to leave his room and wander, free to think, not worry.
A book- thin, dirty, pages torn and used. The cover showed the faded word "Think." One simple word, meaning so much. He had wrote it himself, that year. It held his life story, with his ponderings and ideas, ones he had spoken and others forbidden. Like a diary, but it wasn't. He didn't show his emotions, just his thoughts, so the reader could think for themselves, feel what they wished. It was a book to think about.
He smiled, and dropped the book. He picked up a frayed cloth, his baby blanket, the one he had been brought here in. It was one of the few things to remind him of his past, one without his fears and tears. One where his family was alive, and he knew what it meant to love.
A rubber band. He once kept his book bound with this, charmed to never open. But now it didn't matter if they read it- he would be gone when they did.
One more item. A fresh piece of paper. Displayed on the parchment were the words:
You hit me, and I got up.
You hit me again, and I got up.
Once again you hit me, and once again, I got up.
You hit me twice, and I got up.
Three times, and I got up.
Four times, and I got up.
Five times, and I got up.
And then you hit me, and I fell.
And that was it. His final words.
He smiled, picked up the blade, and cut. And cut again. And again. Then twice. Three times. Four times. Five times. And then he fell.