Slowly, the red headed teen closed the door behind him. It was old and gave a long,
steady squeak when it's rusted hinges were moved. The Russian 'Bladers were nothing more
than beautiful dirt to Boris and Voltaire: gifted with incredible ability yet even a stray dog could
find better treatment than theirs. For instance, their under-sized and foul smelling bathroom, if
one even dared to call it that, was separated from their damp living quarters by nothing more than
a rotten wooden door.
I cy eyes as cold as usual, Tala reached for his hidden razor. On days like this he wanted
to feel something. Anything at all, even if it was just more pain. Most days he couldn't bring
himself to do it, listening to harsh past insults. 'Stupid boy... you aren't strong enough!' andso it
would progress from there until Tala gave up miserably and went back to bed.
On days when he did use the razor, he always felt a little better. Not much, but a little,
and that was good enough. He could watch the blood flow and know he did something for
himself. There are some people who think it's sick and disgusting to cut and find consolement.
Then there are others, like Tala, who were (daresay) happy to watch the life leaving their bodies.
Today was not one of those days. His left sleeve was rolled up to his elbow and he stared
silently at the scarred flesh and razor. All the bad memories washed over him and he couldn't
bring himself to do it. Some people cut almost every day, but not Tala. He just couldn't. Not
with all the bad people and memories in his past tormenting him, and pushing him so hard to do
things he can't do, and forcing him to train beyond his limits, and beatings... the list could go on
for awhile. "What's the matter Tala?" the demonic voice in his head taunted. "Poor, poor Tala.
The NOBODY. You'll never be good for anything and face it, nobody but nobody cares about a
nobody."
Tala had given into that demented voice long ago. At first he tried to fight back, but he
eventually accepted the fact that he was going insane, and began thinking the voice had some
truth behind it. And nobody would ever know the torture he went through, for his face had been
fixed some time ago by excessive hardship to always seem emotionless. "Poor Tala. Too weak
even to severe your own life, to do what you really want to, to DIE."
Slumping against the door Tala wondered as he often did what it would be like being able
to cry. He wasn't sure if it would help or not, though he remembered reading once that it was
supposed to be healthy. Some times, like now as the demon voice continued teasing him, he
really wanted too.
Time dragged on, half an hour seemed like an eternity as the voice continued taunting,
until he finally gave in and raised the blade. He would finally prove he could do something right-
and then he could be free. That night, Tala was able to get something he wanted for the first time
in his life. As he sat in blood, the evil voice finally whispered it's last words to him; "Poor Tala,
hush now. Close your eyes, it's all over..."
The next morning Tala was found dead by his teammate, Spencer. Boris and Voltaire
wasted no time in destroying all evidence of Tala's existence. As talented as he was, he had only
been a tool, and tools could always be replaced. Besides, if the government found out about all
the deaths that took place in the building, they would be shut down for life.
Tala's crimson stain was still on the bathroom floor. And it stayed there until Boris and
Voltaire were finally exploited, almost four years after the boy's death.