He couldn't take it any more.
And as he sat down in the empty hallway of his house, the young lad contemplated his choices in life. His eyes were a soft grey, like the down of a young bird. They were melancholy and empty, staring out vacantly into the wall across him. His legs were sprawled out awkwardly, his hands clutching at his throat. He damn well knew that he would knock himself out, never to go into the eternal sleep he so godawfully desired.
For a hundred years he felt as if the world was slowing down, getting shakier and more unstable. Maybe it was just his mind. For a hundred years, he felt as if the world abandoned him, leaving him to die and rot away. Maybe it was just his mind.
Maybe, just maybe, just maybe, just maybe--
And the boy fell unconsious. His eyes slid closed, his blonde hair fell over his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he would finally achieve the death he's always dreamed of. But as he woke in just a few minutes, he got to his knees and wept silent tears. His parents were nowhere to be seen; not like they'd care anyways. They were blissfully unaware of the hell that was their son's life. How he so terribly wanted to die, how he so terribly wanted to fade away and never again feel the sunlight of tomorrow's day. The hot tears slid down his face, making a small puddle on the floor. Small dust particles floated into it, and he had a sudden flash of thought. He was worth less than a parasite, a dust mite, nothing at all.
There wasn't a single soul who wanted to care for him. Not a damned one. People said his parents cared, but then why did they make excuses to go out for days at a time and only buy enough food to feed themselves? They even lived in a different apartment, for God's sake. And as those tears fell more and more, he wanted to scream but he could not. He might wake the neighbors. He was never to wake the neighbors, it was a family rule.
"Family" rule. What family did the poor boy have? Nothing. His parents left him and he was alone at this house for nearly every hour of the day. He gave up on school, and grew more and more secluded. Not a single soul knew of him, and he preferred it that way. And as those hot tears fell, he wept for the life that normal kids had. With pancakes and loving parents and vacations and candy and love.
And for a hundred years did this lad have his depression.
And for a hundred years did no one care.
And for a hundred years did he choke.
And for a hundred years did no one notice.
He fell into a deeper and deeper sadness, something near impossible to get out of. The lad started scratching at himself, choking himself more often, everything he could do to get the pain he felt he deserved so much.
For he was the worthless burden that no one wanted around. For he was the child unwanted and alone. Scars marred his shoulderblades and neck, digging too deep. There was nothing, nothing that could help him, and the boy slept. When he was not harming, he slept so peacefully and without dreams.
And so this process repeated for what felt like hundreds of years.
And at the age of twenty-two, after seven painful years, he choked himself. Hung himself, to be more precise. To make the process go faster, he wrapped his pale hands around his paler throat, the fingers filling in the small indents on his neck. The air was getting harder and harder to come by. The rope clawed at his neck as well as his hands. He was shaking and heaving and regretting this and why wouldn't anyone help him? Not that he called a single soul. Not even his parents. No one would mourn him. But why? Why was he all alone all this time? Why couldn't he just be loved? Why? He knew none of the answers to those questions. And he wept.
Oh, how the poor lad wept.
Oh, how the hundreds of years went by.
Oh, the poor lad.
The one who sung of pain and despair.
The poor boy whose song was never heard, and he was left to those painful hundred years.
Those hundred years of choke.
