He layed in bed, alone in the dark. His phone vibrated. "I miss you, and I'm sorry. Please respond so I know you're okay." "No. I'm not okay. I won't be okay and I'll never be okay. You did this to me. You put me down so many times, and I kept climbing back up to stay with you."
He tossed his phone across the room and stood up. I just need to find the box. There box can make me happy again. After all he did to me, you deserve this. You deserve to make yourself happy again.
The box was in the bottom corner of his closet. Opening it, he remembered all of the times he thought would last forever. The feeling of another's lips on his own, being happy, holding his hand, being called beautiful. He flipped through the photo album. Why did I think he truly loved me. Look at me. I'm hideous and fat.
He lifted the photos and found what he was looking for. Finally. This will make me happy. I need this. I deserve this.
He began to paint. His brush strokes started small, then slowly got bigger and faster; more and more intense. His paint was his favorite color. He smiled. This is what made him happy. His paintings were always so elaborate. He even made little designs.
When he finished his painting, he sat back and smiled. He started to laugh. He laughed uncontrollably as he stood up and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the sink faucet and washed the paint off his hands, still laughing. He finished washing up and turned on the shower. He carefully removed his clothes, being careful to not ruin his work. He layed in the bathtub. His work had spilled out into the bath water, turning it a dark shade of red. He laughed at the sight. That was him, in the water. His paint, his blood making those swirly designs in the water. He took a deep breath and layed flat in the bath, his head underwater. He laughed until he ran out of air, and so much of his paint had drained from his body, he was too weak to get more air.
