Euthanasia (Kellic)

2: The Blood

Hey guys:) I don't even know what that sort of weird poem thing in the middle is, it just sort of happened I guess and it sort of works, I guess;)

The Devil Is The Splash Of Red On White Porcelain.

I like the silence. I like the cold. I like the pain. I like when people give me those weird looks, because then I know, I know that I understand and they don't. It matters, it really does; I need to feel important. My intelligence is probably the only good quality and I'm not exactly Einstein by any means. I just sort of like knowledge and knowing things. I'm good at remembering too, my head is like an encyclopaedia, a thesaurus and a dictionary all in one. People don't think well of that, but then again how many of them can spell antidisestablishmentarianism without even stuttering. Few of them can even spell, if I'm honest, another quality they do not seem to possess, but I'm hardly that much of a saint. Lying may be a sin, but it's a useful one and I was never really one for religion.

I'm ready now. It's Friday- Rebecca Black, piss off. Friday's my day, I'm all alone, but my heart's right at home and the blood begins to flow. 

It flows and trickles.

Red stains on white porcelain I do not care to explain.

No one is asking so no answers will ever be spoken.

Tiles and rust, water running red.

I'm alone now and I'm safe.

I've made a mess I'm sure.

But it's an organised mess, one I've planned.

I screamed but no one heard me.

I cried but enjoyed every moment.

I died but death didn't come for me.

Hell doesn't even want me.

Hell, I don't even want me.

Someone take this limp body.

Someone set me free.

Dead is all I want to grow up to be.

-

"Oh dear lord!"

My knees buckle and my head spins, because I realise something, that voice isn't mine. I'm not alone.

It's Friday. I'm always alone.

But I'm not. Someone's here and they've come for me. I feel like imploding, I want to drop dead right on that spot, I want these boots to have no one quaking in them, so I do, in hindsight, the most idiotic thing I could have done, but it's the only thing I could think of, my head's already pounding from the blood loss, the pain, or something, I don't really care. That should concern me, it doesn't; I don't really care.

I slash against porcelain skin. It flows red. Everything's red, it's all red. If I'm not already in hell, it certainly looks that way. 

"S-Stop..!" The voice is shaking, they're male and uncertain. I don't care enough to look at them, I don't recognise the voice; they don't belong here. They should've just gone to the toilets round the corner that weren't a mess and inhabited by people of the same demeanour. Maybe they're new and no one likes them enough to warn them of anything, in that case they'll probably fit right in, but Fridays are my days. They have to leave.

"You have to leave." My voice is stupidly calm, I'm nowhere near that calm inside; I'm a wreck, a mess and on the verge of passing out and I'm giving the latter of the three nowhere near as much attention as any sane person would.

"I-I can't how can I?" Footsteps. No, why would they want to get any closer. Can't they see I'm practically insane? Maybe they're insane too, they must be to approach me.

"Turn around," the footsteps stop and I exhale far too loudly. "And walk back out the door."

Silence.

"I recommend using the bathroom round the corner-"

"Are you okay?" What's that supposed to mean? Of course I am, just casually slitting my wrists, y'know, typical Friday for me. I've stopped being sarcastic. It seems to dawn on me then that maybe I'm not okay in the head, like at all, but I push the thought away quickly; I'm far too pretentious to hurl myself down that slope of acceptance.

"Are you retarded?" Harsh, but true.

"I'm head boy."

The silence almost hurts and I'm nearly cackling like a madman, because this whole situation is almost as fucked up as me. The bloody hell is the head boy doing here? He's probably lying. He must be pretty stupid, but most people are so, I guess he's the one with the richest parents or something like that.

"You get your own bathroom."

"It was out of order."

"You should've used-"

"No, I shouldn't, because then I never would have stopped you."

I chuckled sadistically, "stopped me? Good luck on that one."

The footsteps are quick now and he's right beside me. He grabbed my other arm and yanked my flailing frame up to face him and I put a name to his face instantly. Victor Fuentes. He's Mexican, with tanned skin, shoulder length brown hair and big brown eyes. He looks rather shy and innocent but from the polished badge on his blazer I guess the truth is far from that. 

"You shouldn't do that to yourself."

"I know." Is all I can say; I don't want to throw my whole life story at this snob.

"Then why?" I shrugged.

"Why do you care?"

"You're nearly dead." No shit, Sherlock.

"Yeah, I was working on that," I snap back and he doesn't know quite how to take it, because I don't exactly know if I was joking or not either.

"You... you should see someone about this." He's embarrassed to look down at my arm and I wonder how he's survived six years in this school so far.

"I don't want to." He seems taken a back, as if I've just declined a revolutionary cure, but seeing some toffee nosed therapist is nothing of the sort, believe you me.

"I want you to."

"I want you to leave."

He grabs a first aid kit from his bag, which I wonder so greatly why on earth he carries around, that I almost miss him pulling a bandage around my arm. He pulled it far too tight, but I'm used to pain by now and at least the blood stops. My arm wants to fall off, but I hardly think that's too much of an inconvenience; I could always get a wooden one, or a hook. I could be a pirate. That'd be fun, I think.

"I'll leave, if you promise to talk to someone, me even if you won't see a professional. You can't do this okay?" I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back like a child. "I don't even know your name."

"No you don't."

"Do you know mine?"

"Yes."

"Then I should know yours."

"That's not how it works."

"Yes it is, Kellin." He gestures to my schoolbooks scattered over the floor, which probably occurred as my shaken body collided with my bag. I looked up, ready to hurl an insult in his direction, but he's gone. Thank god.