Creative Writing Assignments

Don't know what the fuck to name this.

The small high school boy stumbled into his pitiful shack of a house, shutting his near paper thin door.

He turned to the small cracked mirror on the wall and ran his fingers through the messy curls that adorned his head. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he met his eyes in the mirror. They look drained. Tired. Empty. The light that once filled them faded.

As his ears pick up on the sound of floorboards creaking, he is quick to gather himself and throw on a quick smile. As fake as it may be, it seems quite convincing. His feeble attempts to seem a little less dead inside work well enough for his family. What's left of it anyways.

His father comes trudging into the doorway and locks eyes with his son, a lazy smile making its way onto his face. His breath smells a small bit of alcohol and his movements are slow and unsure. He drags his way through their living room that doubles as a dining room and throws himself into the tattered couch.

The boy follows his father's movements and looks over to the main who created him. So lost in his own self destruction he couldn't care enough to notice his son.

The boy's gaze trails down to his thighs, exposed by the dilapidated state of his shorts. Small scars make themselves known, a stark white against his tanned complexion. A means of escape from his own mind. The boy's gaze reaches his arms and he bites his lip, angry at himself. Scars like these litter the majority of his body.

He's not sure of why because no one ever notices his small cry for help. Or if they notice, they don't care. No one ever notices the marks of someone trying to dig their way out of the pits of hell, or more commonly referred to as an "unhealthy state of mind."

The boy is pulled from his thoughts as his father's snores fill the room. He stands and throws a fraying blanket over his father's sleeping form. Making his way to his room, he grabs a small pocket knife.

He shuts his door quietly and sits down on his filthy mattress. He flips open the pocket knife and stares at the sharp blades. He glides his fingers along the edge and flinches back slightly as it makes its way into his skin.

Perfect.

He brings the blade to his thigh, creating a deep horizontal cut. Just testing the blade a bit more. Making sure it can get the job done.

He brings the blade up to his arm. He inspects it for a moment, attempting to find exactly where his vein is beneath all of the scars. Once he finally spots it, a sickly smile makes its way onto his face.

He brings the blade up to his wrist and drags it down in one swift motion. Blood instantly starts seeping from the wound. Streams of blood trickle down his arm and drip to the floor along with tears he didn't even feel cascading down his cheeks. Whether they're tears of sadness or happiness, he'll never truly know. But if all those cuts where a small cry for help, then let this be his scream.