The smell of smoke fills the air. Alcohol and cigarettes lie on the table beside the used blades. It isn't over yet. It's only just begun, red stains the floor, the once white sleeves of the crisp button up are no longer pure. Red stains cover the shirt, his wrists are burning red. His eyes burn red, hot and filled with salty tears. His throat burns. Empty bottles of vodka lay beneath his desk, which he will finally have use for no longer. Everything hurts. His head is spinning as he tries to stand. Red is all he sees.
The note lies crumbled and tattered on the nightstand, fallen cocaine dust covers the sloppy 2am hand writing. The pill bottles are empty like his heart, and it hurts. Everything hurts. It hurts to think...so he doesn't; it hurts to breathe, he tries not to. It hurts.
Everything hurts.
The sun hasn't come up, the night is still watching him from the single window, taunting him. He sees nothing but darkness. Everything is dark, expect the candle burning on the desk. The desk he won't return to ever again. The drawings and unfinished stories; the song lyrics scribbled down on coffee stained paper, rejected love letters which were tossed aside like nothing. He was nothing.
Nothing at all.
He swallows the urge to vomit the pills, biting back cries that no one would hear. The walls would hear them, the sobbing, pleading cries; they'd soak the bitter noises into themselves, holding them there, but never responding when he called for help. No one had ever answered each time it happened. When he bled onto the floor of his secluded bedroom, and no one would follow the trail of bloody spots to the bathroom; no one found him bleeding over the sink, gagging with bloody fingers choked down his sore throat. No one heard as he whispered he couldn't do it anymore, and retracted his stained fingers from his mouth.
He knew it was the end, and he readily accepted it. He welcomed death with open arms and out stretched hands, bloodied wrists, tear stains soaking his delicate face. The floor was cold, hard, like he imagined death should be. He was right. Although the floor wasn't painful. It was cool, tiles eased his burning lips as he kissed the ground, hunched over and sobbing. Hurting.
Everything hurt.
No one noticed.
No one heard as he gasped out his last breath, it started with a cough, ending in a whimper, begging for another chance. Begging to be saved from what he'd wished for all along, but now realized he didn't want it.
He let out a slow and steady breath, a fluttering of lashes as his eyes tried to stay open, hoping to see a calming face, affectionate touches to his aching head.
But no one came. He didn't see a friendly face. He saw red. All down his arm, down his hands and to the very tips of his fingers. All over the white tiles, the door frame, across the bedroom floor; leading all the way to his bed, the desk a few feet from it; the blades wet with crimson, the note laid on the night stand, wrinkled, stained, and signed with a desperate hand.
His eyes closed for good. He was still bleeding. He was gone. He was Gerard.
