I Don't Have a Title For This.

Trigger warning: Depression, self-hatred, self harm, drug use.You have been warned.




He stands against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets as he stared at the ground. He thumbed at a piece of paper in his pocket, one that you had left him before going to work this morning."Here," you said. "If it happens again, call this number, okay?" and placed the paper on his bedside table. You leaned in and hugged his still body as he hid in bed. If it wasn't for his slight, slow blinking, and rapidly twitching fingers, he could have been dead. It had been the fourth time this month you came home to him, face down on the couch, blood pooling on the floor below him from his still bleeding hand, shattered glass from the mirror they shared in the washroom.You sighed and left for work, anxiously talking to you lover about the mental state of your best friend and roommate."Just a few more months," he said. "Just a few more months and I can fly you out here."Meanwhile your friend sits at home, wallowing in his paranoia. You never told him about your plans to move. It was too hard to bring up. You knew he needed you, but you couldn't stay any longer.You have known your roommate, Kenneth Michaels, for seven years now. He was there for you through crushes and breakups, and nights crying alone in the darkness. When he asked you to move in with him, just a year ago, it seemed like a great idea. Your boyfriend who lived in California was all for it, and seemed to trust him. Kenneth never did try anything on you. He was a good friend. But he could never be alone.
Kenneth stands looking at the floor. It had only been a few hours, and he knew you would be home soon, but he couldn't help the feeling of it being an eternity since you left. He walked to the washroom and looked into the mirror, noting all of his imperfections. He reached a hand up to his face and lightly touched it; his slightly off center eyes, his large nose, the crooked teeth. He hated it. He just wanted to take a knife and cut away all of his imperfections, forever. As he stared, he watched his hand twitch. Random spasms that tormented his right hand. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hand, digging his nails into the flesh of his palm. Eventually, the spasms ended.He looked up into the mirror again, into the stupid face that he hated, and felt a surge of anger rise through him. His hand, still balled up into a fist. He raised it and pulled back, throwing a punch at the mirror. He felt glass enter his flesh and cut deep, heard the shards clatter against the floor. He clenched his teeth again, his hand in pain and bleeding heavily. He stepped out, back to the living room before reaching into his pocket, throwing the now bloody piece of paper onto the table, and put an unlit cigarette into this mouth. He lit it and took a puff, coughing as he exhaled. He hated smoking, but it helped to dull the pain of his stupidity. He took a few more puffs before putting it out and laying down on the couch. Blood continued to pool below his hand and he sighed. "Will life ever get better than this?" he questioned, his normally high and whispy voice now almost deep and gravelly.He hated it all. He hated the fear. The fear of losing her, his stone, his guardian, his friend.But he knew that all good things must come to an end someday... right?