So guys, while it has been a great honor typing up this story for you, I do have to quit. Yeah, I know, I'm going out with a bang with so many loose ends, but I prefer it that way. You can tie up the ends in your mind. And while, undecided yet, I might do a sequel about this, I might not. It just depends how I feel. I will, however be doing something small about David over on Fiction Press, so be on the look out for that. I'll show it up in my Profile in about five or six days. Anyway, have fun with this last little bit.
It's dark, as it always is. It's quiet, just as it always is. Nobody is around, in the house, or outside, from what is visible. Nobody is going to stop anything started. What little moon light there is reflects off the sharp metal blade as it sits on a desk. Around it, papers lay scattered, pens and pencils, and other things popping up occasionally.
He wakes up; what wakes him up is unknown, but he does. He walks to the desk, not pausing, very monotone, subconsciously. He hears a noise, and turns quickly, arm dropping to his side, but then figures out it was just those damn floorboards again. He continues.
After picking up the knife, he goes back to his bed, and sits with his legs crossed. He examines it, turning it in his hand, weighing it, feeling how sharp the tip is. It begs to him, pleading for him to use it. Anywhere is fine, really. He smiles, happy to obligate.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and then looks back to the knife. It's sharp, and cool to the touch, and all he really wants to do is use it, draw blood, see the blood. But where? Where shall he inflict the most violent of pain, where shall he use the blade? Where should he bleed red?
Thoughts should be whirling in his head at the moment, begging him to stop, and go to bed, but they don't. Instead, a voice is screaming 'Do it, I dare you too. Be a man, and get it over with. Do it now!'
A moment later, he decides to use his leg as a means of happiness. He lifts the blade, takes a deep breath, and then, at the last moment, he backs out...
Gabriel sat straight up, sweaty, and blinked his eyes. The streetlights outside were casting an orange glow in his bedroom, and he could make out his desk. It was then, that the dream, or nightmare, had come back to him. He sighed, before laying back down. That was the fourth time this week, so basically every day except for Monday.
Gabe had, at long last, returned to his bed, in his room, with his not-so-much-but-kind-of parents. It had been a few days, a week to be exact, and it had been just as Gabe expected. All he wanted to do was get away from everybody, and all everybody wanted to do was avoid him. But, there was that small part in him that begged that someone would come and save him. He hadn't had to go to school yet, and he didn't want to. He was much happier sleeping all day, and staying far away from the people who would ask him personal questions.
However, these dreams were getting a little out of hand. Every night, somewhere in his perverse little mind, he dreamed of cutting himself, but never actually did it. He supposed he just wanted to bleed. Bleed red. And somewhere inside of him, right now, he was probably bleeding red.
He sighed once again, unable to do anything else with his anger. It was really pissing him off that he was having all these mixed feelings, and come on, not all people have to go through this. So why should he?
The first thing he felt was relief. All he wanted to do, when he had seen Amy and Bob, was crawl over to them, and beg them for forgiveness. But after the initial start of seeing them, he remember the anger of being lied to, and that made him mad. He remembered all the feelings that rushed through him, but it wasn't until Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, that he had felt something completely different. Something not to joke about. He had felt suicidal. It had scared him at first, the feelings he had had, and it had still scared him now, but he had a different view of life now.
In his dream, this was the part where he would get up from his bed and grab the knife, but now, in reality, he didn't have a knife to spare. Instead, he opened his door as quietly as possible, and walked downstairs to the kitchen.
It was quiet downstairs, and he pulled out a chair. He sat down in it, and looked at the kitchen, the walls and everything. He had missed it on his two day tour of Colorado, but he he had figured he wouldn't have to see it for another week. And now that he was back-he was relieved, sure-he had felt a little disappointment in himself. He couldn't even run away right.
He rubs his face because he has nothing better to do. He isn't hungry. He isn't even sure why he's in the damn kitchen... expect for the knife. But no, that would be wrong.
Or would it?
It would be okay if he cut himself, just this once, and never do it again. It would be okay if blood was spilt, because really, he wasn't that innocent. It would be okay, be how could things get any worse from here. So he did it.
He grabbed the biggest knife from the drawer, and headed upstairs, almost stabbing himself when he just about tripped. Gabriel Duncan was going with the grain. Gabriel Duncan was going to inflict pain. Sitting on he bed once again, he took his arm, and held it out.
This was it.
Depressing isn't it? Well, considering how it ended, I just might do something else with this. Anyway, I am proud to have my loyal fanbase. If you guys have questions on why I'm no longer out there, I'll answer them. Love you all!