He had come this far, he wasn't just going to stop now. When he looked back on it he had done everything wrong, literally everything. He had made the wrong choices, he had talked to the wrong people, he had been at the wrong places, he had done everything wrong. He couldn't express enough how wrong had done every single thing. It was too wrong, it was just too fucking wrong. He wished he could jump back in time, back to the moment he was born, no, before that, the moment his parents met, he wished he could go back to the moment his parents met, he wished he could change everything. He closed his eyes and wished and wished and wished. He had been wishing his whole life, sometimes he wished so intense that he thought he would die of it, again something he had done horribly wrong, it was all just so wrong. But he wasn't going to let the fact that he had done everything wrong stop him from doing this, because this just had to go right, if this wouldn't go right it would be the end, finally, he had been wanting to end it for so long, but he wasn't going to think about that right now, he was going to focus on this, he had to. This was more important than anything, ever. Damn it he had to do this right. He needed to clear his mind, he needed to focus. "DAMN IT JUST FOCUS" he shouted with every part of his body, it felt good to shout, it felt good to express violence, it felt so good.
And then he started running, running away from his thoughts, running away from everything. It felt so good to run, to kick the stones of the road, to go fast, it felt so good to let his legs move fast, faster, so incredibly fast, he loved it. Every part of his body hurt, but he kept on running, it felt to damn good. Running as hard as he could. Breathing in the cold air that hurt his longs. Everything hurt. But that was the damn purpose of it all. He had to keep on running, but his body refused, he had to stop, he tried to keep running, but he had to stop, his longs demanded air, he couldn't feel his feet. Hands on his knees, he stood, bent over, aching for air. Did this really have to be wrong too? Couldn't he just have one thing he could do right. "AAAAAAAA" he didn't enjoy shouting, but it was something.
He looked at the watch on his left hand 3:37 in the morning it told him. He hadn't slept for 49 hours straight. Wrong. Every damn thing was wrong. He was frustrated. With how wrong his life was, how wrong his body was. He wanted to rip open his chest and let every single wrong thing that he had carried around since birth out. He pulled at his T-shirt with so much force that it ripped and he looked at his ugly chest. Why not rip his chest open to? What would be the harm? It was not like anyone would miss him. He had no friends, no family and anything. He was nothing. A damn wrong piece of nothing. He was a fault the universe had made. He wasn't even a big enough nothing to be a fault of the universe. He put his hands on his chest and pushed his sharp nails in his warm flesh. He pressed and pressed and pressed. It didn't even hurt. He pressed harder and harder. Looking down, he saw that his chest bled and his hands covert in blood. He couldn't care less. Now his fingers were deep enough in his flesh to start ripping. He pulled his arms to the sides and slowly he tore his chest apart. He knew that if he would look down he'd have to stop and he'd never end it so instead he looked at the trees and screamed.
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General Fiction- "He had come this far, he wasn't just going to stop now. When he looked back on it he had done everything wrong, literally everything. He had made the wrong choices, he had talked to the wrong people, he had been at the wrong places, he had done e...
