tw: self-harm; suicidal thoughts; self-depreciation; overall dark tones

This one wasn't a prompt but a drabble I had the urge to write all on my own. When I say trigger warning, I really mean it.

He was crying, desperately trying to dispose of the bloodied tissues and toilet paper littering the floor. His breathing is ragged and he feels like he needs to scream.

Bobby hadn't realised how much he hated being home. He hadn't realised how much he hated hiding who he really was. Prep school, a bitter laugh escaped him as he laid his head against the wall in the bathroom. He told them he was at a prep school he found that focused hard on his academics and worked on study skills. His mother had been so excited to enroll him, so proud that he was accepted.

He lifted his hand, watching as ice grew at his finger tips.

They didn't know he was a mutant. After the dinner he just had, he wasn't certain he could tell them he was. Not if being a mutant meant he was a disgusting freak of nature according to his dad. He licked his lips, fingers curling to make a fist. He brought his hand down and hit himself in the leg, opening the cuts that had been slowly healing.

He hissed in pain, but hit himself again, tears welling up in his eyes. He hated this. The never ending turmoil he felt. He wasn't good enough in school, he wasn't good enough at sports. He never did anything right at home. He got into a prep school but all his dad had done was grunt and tell him not to come home gay.

His stomach churned. There it was. The magic word.

Gay.

He could bring home A's, get a pat on the shoulder and be told to keep it up. He could score a goal in soccer and his dad would nod his head but say football would have been the better option. He could tell his parents he got accepted into a prep school – albeit, that was false – and his father would grunt. Grunt and tell him not to come home gay. They would eat dinner and Bobby would bite his tongue while his dad went on about how mutants and homosexuals would be the downfall of America and ultimately the world.

He'd rant and rave and Bobby's mother would just nod her head, humming in agreement until he cooled down and then she'd stand up and grab him another drink, kissing him on the cheek and telling him to watch his blood sugar.

All the while, Bobby slowly hated himself more and more.

The tears were streaking down his face and the razor called to him again, but the knocking on the door and Ronny's impatient voice told Bobby he had no time to leave anymore scars on his legs.

"Jesus, Bobby, what are you doing? Smuggling immigrants through the sewers? Hurry up, I gotta piss."

Bobby dabbed at the blood on his leg and threw more of the toilet paper into the toilet. "Don't get your panties in a knot, Ronny," he said, hoping his voice didn't betray him. "I'm almost done. I haven't had Mom's cooking in forever, give me a break." He heard a laugh like huff from the other side of the door. He flushed and ran some water, cleaning the blood of his hands. He pulled his jeans on, wincing as the rough material ran over his legs.

He slipped the razor blade into his pocket. Bobby opened the door, noticing Ronny give his face an odd look. "It's all yours," he said, pushing past him and going to his room

Night time used to be Bobby's favourite time. Now, he was plagued by his thoughts, which ate at him like acid. The razor had been thrown haphazardly into his night stand, calling out tauntingly for Bobby to pick it, drag it across his skin.

Some nights, when he was alone with his thoughts, he wondered what it would be like to die. Would he even be missed? His mother would be sad and he knew Ronny would be angry. However, that didn't answer his question. Would he be missed? How many days would go pass until his family stopped grieving him? Would his friends at the school even blink twice for him? Or would they take their moment to say how he was a wonderful friend, always smiling, cracking jokes, and then never dwell on him again?

The light outside his room flickered, causing warped orange shadows to fill his room before blinking out of existence and then back in.

The razor blade was screaming for Bobby.

He could write a note, he mused, a bitter smile on his face. He could write a note about how he didn't feel like he deserved to live. He was a disgusting freak of nature, after all.

He'd tell them he was a mutant, in his note. He'd tell them he could create snow and ice. He'd write about how, when he was using his powers, he felt a freedom he had never known. How it made him feel so alive and worthy of being alive.

He'd write about how he was gay. He'd admit he dreamt about other boys, and that he found Warren from the school so undeniably attractive. Then he'd write about how, even though he found Warren hot, he really wanted to kiss Scott. He'd say how Scott was so nice to him, even though no one had to be nice to him.

He'd write about how he thought Scott was his only real friend.

He'd write about how he had never wanted to be a disappointment to his father, but he felt like he was never anything else but so.

Bobby's jaw clenched as he thought about how'd he'd kill himself. He knew where his dad kept his gun. He could always freeze and break the lock, grab the gun and sneak back into his room.

He could blow his brains out through the back of his head.

Or he could slit his wrists, long, deep lines up the length of his arm. He could take a hot bath, because he knew that hot water made the blood thinner and run faster. He could die peacefully, bleeding out.

The light flickered again.

Bobby curled up and faced his wall, back to the door, to the window. He could never do it, no matter how much he wanted to do it sometimes. The thought of killing himself scared him, but the thought of continuing to live the way he was made him want to kill himself.

He swallowed hard, tears running down his face, soaking into his pillow. He'd see how this vacation went, he decided. If he returned to the school and still didn't feel any better, than maybe he would kill himself. Maybe he'd wait until the next vacation, when things got bad again. Or he could tell his parents the truth about who he was, and see where things went from there.

He fell asleep eventually. His dreams were about blood and ice and people screaming.