T.W. Cutting, suicide attempt, bad writing
As Stan stumbled out the room, Craig's gaze lingered on the empty doorframe. He wondered how a single person leaving a room could be so agonizing to him. The smoke and booze enveloped the air in a sickly tempting scent, calling him to forget Stan.
Even as Craig's mind beckoned him to hedonism something deeper in him craved to excuse himself and search for the other pitch-haired boy. Almost mindlessly he stood, his legs working for his heart instead of his brain.
Stan walked down the sidewalk, unable to shake the dread he felt. The drink in his hand long gone, his thoughts dwelled in places they shouldn't. Often during these walks Stan would contemplate just ending it all, escaping the pain.
He let out a dry chuckle to himself, the thought of him getting the courage to finally go through with it sending an electric tingle up his spine. A mix of excitement, fear, and anticipation.
As Stan sat down on a bench by a pond he knew well, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. As he sat and smoked in the chill Fall breeze, he put his hand in his pocket before feeling something that made his blood run hot and cold and somewhere in between all at once.
He'd accidently left a single razor blade on him.
He pulled it out, slowly bringing his palm into the moonlight. A pale gleam showed a dark stain on the blade. Stan's breathing quickened as he stared at it.
"If this is your way of sending me a sign, consider it recieved" Stan thought. He wasn't particulary religous, but having someone to blame was nice every once in a while.
He threw the butt of his cigarette into the pond before looking at his left arm. He slowly pulled his sleeve down revealing a variety of scars, both fresh and antique. He sat there for a moment before dragging the blade in a jagged strip across his flesh.
Euphoria. Shame. Desire. He felt a rush of all three of these as the crimson dripped from his arm. It wasn't enough, it was never enough. He ripped three more across his arm in quick succession before watching the blood bead up and begin to pour out.
He took the blade in his other hand and looked at his right arm, more beat up and scarred then his left. He placed the razor vertically at the tip of his arm and pulled it down hard and fast.
Immediatly the pain was different than he knew, more intense yet also intensly more gratifying. Bright red arcs of life began leaping from his arm and Stan knew he had crossed a line.
As tears welled in his eyes and his mind became cloudier he made his choice in a split-second. He took the blade even as his insticts screamed at him to relent, and took it down his other arm.
Stan dropped the razor, now sopping wet with his blood. He laid down on the bench, his vision softening and his hearing dulling until he felt a comforting warmth fill his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he was truely comfortable. His eyes fluttered and splashed his cheeks as he realized he was crying.
The last thing he remembered before blacking out was a small voice far away, but it seemed so so far away.
(I promise this isn't the end.)
(Probably.)
