The Missing Pieces

Pain

*Mitch's POV*

Normal.

Define normal.

What is "normal"?

And what makes me not normal?

Is it my lack of speech?

My decreasing singing ability?

Whatever it is, apparently it has exited my life.

Whatever.

Pentatonix is gonna fall apart because of me.

Of course they are.

I'm the youngest, the smallest, the gay one, or, the "fag" as people like to say, and most of all,

The broken one.

People can tell in interviews that I'm not okay.

We're having to set back tour.

We're going back to Texas for a while.

Just because of me.

Superfruit is boring now.

It's nearly come to an end, and Scott's devastated.

I know the fans are, too, but what kind of fun is sitting in front of a computer and watching one guy talk while the other one just sits and smiles occasionally?

Oh.

It's not.

Nothing about me is fun anymore.

Scott comes in and sits beside me, not saying a word.

Without thinking, I reach up and slap him.

He just clenches his jaw and nods.

I look at my hand in shock.

Sorry.

Silence.

"Mitch...I...I didn't mean to upset you, you know what I meant."

I couldn't take it anymore.

"No! I...don't!" I yell, barely understandable.

Scott looked taken aback. "I'm sorry, Mitch. You're my best friend and-"

Save it.

Scott blinked, making his pent up tears fall.

Silently, he stood up and walked into the living area with the others.

I start crying.

It's my fault.

None of this would have happened if I knew how to talk.

2 year olds have to learn to talk, not 22 year olds.

I want this to be over.

Angels can sing, right?

I stand up.

I walk into the back room and block the door.

I reach into the cabinet.

There's nothing there.

I open the medicine box.

There they are.

I take seven.

Seven is "God's number", right?

He won't be mad.

I put them in my mouth, one by one.

I get to three.

"Mitch!"

I hear a high-pitched voice from outside of the door.

"Mitch, please open up!" She tries to open the door.

Four.

That's the limit.

"MITCH!" Her and Scott.

Five.

There are now four people pounding on the door.

Six.

I start to feel drowsy.

Seven.

I feel nauseous.

"Good...bye."

And that was it.

I'm gone.