He watched as people came in and out.
Those people didn't know how lucky they were to have people who cared for them, who listened to them, who would miss them if they left.
He hung up his janitor's overcoat. He grabbed his keys, wallet and jumper before walking out.
He walked home, bumping occasionally into a passer-by, but no-one noticed him. No-one ever did. Who would? He didn't scream 'special'. He didn't look like someone who walked home everyday to self-harm. No-one ever does.
He went up the stairs and into his bathroom, only to open the left door of the cupboard under the sink. He fumbled around inside it, before pulling out a razor. He breathed in deeply, before positioning his body in the bathtub and allowing the water to start running. He lifted his shirt and pressed the razor to his stomach, and traced a line across it.
A thin line formed across the soft flesh of his stomach, blood gently trickling down into the bath. And another one. And another one. And another one. And so many were drawn and imprinted onto his skin that the water in his bathtub turned scarlet.
Once the last one was drawn, he put the razor in the sink and sank into the water. He didn't think that he needed to bandage these. Where was the point? He was done with trying anyway.
He was done with trying to get past everyday with barely enough to eat or drink. He was done with trying to earn enough money to pay the rent each month and only scraping up enough once every 4 months. He was done with trying to fight until tomorrow came. He was done with all of that.
He was tired of trying. There was no point of existing anymore. He just wasn't going to make it.
"Goodbye, world." He thought before going under.
The next week, his boss phoned the police. He hasn't received a note, a phone call, a text, anything, for the past week, and he was starting to worry.
When the police broke into the boy's apartment 20 minutes later, all they found was a body in the bathtub. A body covered in marks - old scars and fresh cuts. The most recent one was across his chest.
As the police gathered around the body, all they could wonder was what had led this boy to commit suicide, to end his own life. What could possibly have been so depressing in his life, so horrifying, that he thought that taking his life was the only way to get out of it.
Little did they know that he was pushed. Pushed by what everybody else has, but doesn't listen to - his conscience. Also known as the monsters that live inside his head.
