Duet

Me, Myself & I

Trigger Warning • Self Harm / Suicide

The sound of pebbles on Tarmac pursues me as I sprint down this minor street. If only I can get to the main road, I'll be safe.

Risking a glance behind me, I see they're losing ground on me. I smirk - that's one thing I'm better at than them.

Probably the only thing though.

I turn the corner, finally: safety. Panting for breath, hands on knees, I will my heart rate to return to normal.

My parents can't know about this: they'd contact the school, and then God knows what'd happen. Plus, it gives me much needed exercise, and we can't be protected from bullies all our lives, right?

Classic example of survival of the fittest - only, in this day and age, it's just the mentally strongest people who succeed.

I take an anticipatory breath and open the door.

"I'm home!" I yell, hoping the bruise on my face from lunchtime isn't showing already.

No reply. Typical. Just in case they're ignoring me - it has been known - I brush my hair to cover the possible black eye as I make my way upstairs.

My bedroom is my favourite place. It keeps all of my darkest secrets for me, and most of my best memories were made in here, using YouTube as a refuge from all the thoughts in my head.

Well, only the thoughts I'm aware of. I'm Dan, but I'm only one half of Dil's brain. Phil (I think his name is) is the other half - though he doesn't particularly get much say in things.

Dangling over the edge of my familiar monochrome duvet, I try to think of something to do; to conquer the boredom; stop my racing mind.

Drawing, music, piano, writing - nothing helps silence these thoughts. I sigh. This again? Really?

Opening the black ring box I keep under my pillow, I see a razor blade's familiar gleam.

But there's a scrap of paper placed on top, written in a messy scrawl which I don't recognise as mine.

Please stop. I hate dealing with this.
- Phil :(

I hesitate. I don't want to do this to Phil: from what I can gather, he's much better of a person than me. Whatever.

Making sure to lock the bathroom door behind me, I begin my well-rehearsed routine.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying out. The blade drops with a dull echo on the tiled floor. Such a small noise for such a significant act.

Why does he insist on doing this to us - does he not pay attention to my warnings? Does he not care about us?

Oh no; I feel him coming back. It's the same feeling each time, like I'm drowning, gasping for air, desperate to talk-

You are disgusting. You're worthless. Why do you even bother living? It's pointless. You're too weak to even stand against the bullies.

You helped them. You took a razor blade to your own goddamn skin, and you hurt yourself.

If you can't deal with a couple of high school bullies, how the hell will you cope in the real world? There's no reason not to end it now.

This has gone too far. If only I had someone who truly cared, who I could talk to. But I don't. Because I don't deserve it.

Jaw set square, I pick up my salvation: a piece of rope. I've practised this too many times: the knot falls perfectly into place as I hang the other end up.

Taking a deep breath, I stand up on the chair. The rope is comfier than is expected - comforting, almost. Before I know it, I'm doing it at last.

Breathing out. Kicking the chair. Gasping like a goldfish. Pathetic.

No! What's going on? What happened?

"Mum! Dad!" I try to croak out, but it comes out as a series of laboured grunts. Tears begin to fall - this is hopeless.

He must have done it: him, the other one.

I'm sorry, Phil.

A/N Whoops another sad one. I'm not this depressing in real life, I swear!