• With a gun resting against his temple, a barrel upon his jaw. One choice. Keep living with the pain that built him, or lose everything. ‘End it.’, these are the only words that come to mind aside from ‘I’m sorry...’.
    He whispers, “I am so lost, there is no other way…”
    A tear runs down his cheek, and drops onto his limp arm. Slowly, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and knows that it will be his last. Then, he notches the gun.

    A lifeless body falls to the bed, gun thumps to the floor. Scarlet covers the wall in thick splatters, pillow now doused in crimson. Dogs bark and scratch at the door, the door he closed to everyone. His phone buzzes, once, twice. An answer won’t ever come.
    He was alone at that time. His mother comes home, doesn’t think that anything could be possibly awry, and walks up to the white bedroom door. She opens it, and screams while falling to her knees. Covers her mouth to stifle her tears, and crawls back away from the horror. In hysterics she grabs her phone and calls her husband, who rushes home as she calls 911.

    A girl gets a phone call an hour later. She answers it, and asks the crying woman what happened. The girl falls silent, drops her phone, and tears roll down her pale cheeks. One word escapes her dry lips, “No…”.
    “No, not again, no one else, you promised!”
    Shaking, sobbing, rocking on the floor, aside from that she cannot move. No more words spill from her mouth, no more tears slip from her reddened eyes. There is nothing. No feeling, no numbness, no anything. She lays almost lifeless on the floor. No movement except from her unsteady shallow breaths.
    People send messages of condolences, but not one will reach her mind. Focus is obliterated, any sense is gone. Countless hands graze shoulders, and embraces are shared, but nothing helps. She’ll come home, sit in one spot, and stare at the ceiling.

    Days pass, and her blood stains the sink, her arms with words etched into them. No pain, no feeling. She stares at her reflection, and no longer recognises herself. Her pale skin has become discoloured, for she has not eaten. Small bruises dot her biceps from where she dug her fingers into them.
    Despair will shroud her. His loss would pain her to the same point. Her arms read , ‘Failure’, ‘Broken’, and ‘I’m sorry’. Her legs adorn scarlet and flesh-toned stripes. Some fresh, bold, and deep red. The slow cascade of her blood is the solitary thing she enjoys. Mesmerised by the idea that if she had tried harder. By the idea that she had not saved him.