The Will of Love and Life (Peterick)

Chapter Six

TW: suicidal thoughts, self harm, disturbing imagery

May 30, 2016

Blood ran down his arm. The cuts stung with every flick of his wrist. His vision blurred from the tears welled up in his eyes. The brush was held in a death grip. His teeth were clenched. His eyes were red and blue. His lips quivered in a snarl.

You're not good enough.

You don't deserve anything.

The bloody knife was on the table next to an empty pack of Menthols. His left hand clicked the lighter on and off. On and off. The flame singed the side of his finger every time it flickered on. Flicker flicker.

"You're killing me," he whispered to the painted canvas.

His eye twitched, and his breaths were uneven. The brush dropped from his hand and fell to the floor, barely making a sound. He passed the lighter over to his right. His left hand reached over and grabbed the knife. His drunken eyes looked down at it in his grasp. They jumped back up to the painting in front of them. His unsteady breaths got heavier, and he stabbed the canvas, ripping the bloody knife across, the cut mimicking that of those on his skin. He threw the knife across the room, and it stuck perfectly straight into the wall. He shoved the lighter in his pocket and took the red ink pen from the table to write 02/11/17 on the bottom right corner of the canvas.

Something snapped in his head, and he took a step back, the pen rolling out of his unclutched hand. His heart started to race with his thoughts, and he ran out of the room, slamming the door shut. He didn't ever want to open it again. His shoes crunched the glass as he went down the hallway, then the staircase, and into the kitchen. His wrist went straight under the faucet, water washing the blood down the drain. The tears rolled from his cheeks and into the sink. He could see his reflection in the window, and it reminded him of why he did it to himself. Everything he'd ever done to himself.

He wrapped his right wrist in a paper towel and pulled his sleeve back down. His stomach twisted. He wasn't sure if it was from hunger or the thought of what he'd just done. His hand shook as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Patrick? It's two in the morning, what're you---"

"I did something bad."

"Patrick, are you---"

"I'm lonely. I wanna die."

"Don't do anything. I'm coming right over, okay?"

"Why doesn't anyone love me, Joe?" Patrick asked, sinking slowly to the floor. "I've never been enough. I'm so stupid."

"Don't talk like that," Joe said. "And don't you dare hang up the phone."

But Patrick already hung up. His thumb hovered for a quick second over Pete's contact, but he didn't know that the lawyer was actually a disaster, and Patrick didn't want him to know the truth. Pete didn't need to see his other side.

He curled up on the hardwood floor, shoulders shaking as he cried. He bit his fingernails so he wouldn't scratch at his wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight that the blackness started to flicker.

He didn't even look up when he heard his door open and Joe call out his name. He stayed silent, holding back tears as he choked. He heard footsteps, and he felt Joe's arms wrap around him.