Stan felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as he walked home. Pulling it out of his jean pocket, he saw Kyle's name on his cracked screen. He didn't pick it up.
Arriving at the fenced in farm, he stared at the worn wood door leading into his house, seemingly paralysed where he stood. He turned around and walked to the barn instead.
This was a common occurence for Stan, nearly automatic. He sat down in the rafters of the barn, the warm rays of the setting sun sneaking through the gaps in the ceiling. Pulling his hidden bottle of whiskey from between two hay bales, he played Kyle's voicemail.
"Hey dude, how's it going? I think we should talk. The guys have been worried, Ken especially. I know we aren't on the best terms but we need to try to ignore it for now, for him".
Stan chuckled, dryly. He didn't actually find it funny, but forcing a laugh kept him from breaking down completely. He tilted his bottle up and focused on the burn in his throat as he drank, shuddering as he put it back down. He turned back to the haystack, grabbing a plastic bag full of razors.
Reaching in and pulling out one of the shining blades, he felt a tear run down his cheek. He took another shot of whiskey, exhaled into the echoing barn and rolled the sleeve of his sun-faded dark hoodie down. Putting edge to flesh he closed his eyes and pulled the razor across his arm.
He felt a streak of crimson roll down his wrist and pulled the razor across again, lower this time. Over and over, slowly painting his arm and the hay around him a deep red. Finishing the right, he rolled his sleeve back down and repeated the process on his other. A sense of calm, of control washed over him before shame and panic and a tinge of regret rose up and buried him.
The sun was down now, the whiskey gone, the blood dried. He slowly staggered down from the rafters, nearly falling multiple times, before walking to the house, his legs weighing him down like dumbells. He opened the front door quietly hoping no one was awake. His Mom left with his sister years ago, leaving Randy and Stan on the farm.
Randy hadn't taken the abandonment well, resorting to illicit means of numbing. White stains on the coffee table attested to it. He had become angry and violent, the drug giving him a dangerous edge, an unpredictability. Stan wasn't taking chances.
Grabbing some gin from his closet he took a shot neat before mixing some with a sprite he had bought earlier in the day. Crawling into bed and putting his drink in the window, he thought about Kyle's message, and dreaded waking up to face him.
