His Isolated Room

He turned off the projector - the only light source in his room. He sat on his bed, fondling his torn sheets. He bit them and ripped them with his fingernails when he couldn't sleep at night. He let out a long-drawn sigh and hung his head down. His room smelled of death and disappointment. Along with dirty laundry, old alcohol, and the lingering scent of nicotine.

He stuck out his arms. Full of scars from his very own blade, and the wounds of his 'mentor'. His skin coated in a mixture of blues and purples. Red fading into to brown. Little parallel lines that went up and down his forearms, and his thighs. His bones were bulging out of his skin. He remembered why he always left his letter jacket on.

Rejection. His glossy eyes darted all over his room. From the "Best Son in The World" certificate to his brand new camera. The thought of cameras made him sick. He hated the word, he hated looking at them. Something he once aspired to do was completely ruined for him. Forever.

He dizzily stood up, barely catching his balance. Immediately falling down to his floor that smelled heavily of garbage. His hands squeezed the strands of the blue carpet. His fists turning blood red. He dug at the carpet with anger, like there would be something to uncover. But there was nothing. He ripped out a patch of carpet and threw it across his room. Anger turning to fear and sadness. He pressed his head against the missing patch and let out a small muffled shriek.

He remembered why everything he touched was destroyed. He was only made of built up rage and fear. He crawled on his hands over to the wall where the certificate hung. He knew it was just a piece of paper. The words were meaningless. They meant nothing to him or his father. Lies. Every word on that page. He ripped the paper from his wall and stared at it blankly. His grip tightened until the thick paper pierced his delicate skin. He would have thought after all of these years his skin would have adjusted to the harsh torture, but it only weakened. He aggressively tore the paper in half and tossed it aside. Just another mess he would never clean up.

He spun around in his office chair. Of course that was destroyed, too. Piece of the foaming leather were missing. From his teeth to nail marks. The armrests were completely broken. He had yanked the parts of plastic off.

The beep alarmed him. A new email. He had only hoped it would be from Victoria about the party. The only thing to keep his mind away from thinking about his own life, unless they had something planned. Now he was concerned about the party. The only place he could escape would soon turn into his job where he would be forced to keep the 'Legacy' alive.

The picture on a shelf next to his computer. The beginning. He flipped the picture over so it would face down. He didn't want to see that face. That antagonizing face that haunted him, even in his dreams. The face that wouldn't let him escape. It always whispered to him. Disappointed things. Things that made him hate himself more. Things that caused him to run the blades across his pale skin.

He remembered the first time he did it. He couldn't sleep, even after crying for hours like he did every night. He snuck in at midnight in his huge kitchen. His father had been away, doing his 'important' things. He hoped he wouldn't wake his mother. Though she didn't have much say in anything. He tiptoed through the long hallways and down his extravagant staircase. The lights were off. All of them. The only thing that guided him was the moonlight shining through his bay window. He opened the drawers, having his eye on the weapon for a long time. But he wouldn't use it for self defense or attacking someone else. He would use it on himself. He snatched the smallest knife quietly and ran back to his room. He was only ten years old. Already exposed to the sick twisted truth. He knew from then it wasn't right from then, but he had no say in the start of his manipulation. 

He had waddled into his all white bathroom. The tiles were pure white, identical to the ones in the vault. The first time ignited him. It was the only way to release his pain, his feelings. He started slowly and cautiously, cringing at the pain at first. Then he went deeper, but not deep enough. He watched the blood drip from his arm to the white tiles. He did it more. Up and down his forearms. From that day on, he never wore short sleeves shirts in public ever again.