Battle Tendency

Too much

The excruciating, gut-stabbing feeling of being oh so worthless was sapping what little oxygen was left in his lungs with every deafening second. He frantically clawed at his throat, desperate for a break, for a shred of courage to finally end it, end everything.
Pain was surging to his veins, coursing through his blood like a newfound dose of adrenaline, vibrating the core of his very existence. The turbulence behind his eyes did not cease to ingrain into his skull, no matter how hard he willed for a non-existent anesthesia or how many painkillers he shoved down his windpipe.

The veins peeking out from his wrists seemed inviting.

With trembling fingers, he reached out for the same old mini knife and ran gashes across, parallel, perpendicular, in every direction on his bare left wrist. Having withstood Lisa Lisa's much more hellish training, his self-inflicted wounds were nothing but a bug bite.

It hurt.

It hurt his pride as a warrior, being reduced to such a pathetic state. The perfect proud playboy image he was so persistent to keep up was ripping, breaking, scattered in bits lost in his heart-bursting whim of trying to kill himself. He felt like the uttermost trash of humanity. Who would need him anyway ?

With ragged breaths, exhausted eyelids fell shut. His back collapsed against the floor, and for an agonizing amount of time he just laid there, motionless. Red liquid was overflowing, covering a patch of floor in a disgusting metallic stench. A flutter of delicate eyelashed guided his gaze to the ceiling. Bland white, just like the meaning of his existence (nothing, nothing, nothing).

Forcing his legs to support his weight, he dragged his blood-covered arm to the sink and rinsed it off, as well as mopped the floor all clean. His soapy gloves served as a degrading reminder that just earlier on in the day he had once again thought of death. Pain seared in and irritated his cuts, but his mind was too clogged to care one bit.

A smirk on his face, an enviously fashionable scarf wrapped around his neck, he continued his pointless life.

Then one day, a sudden encounter piqued his interest.

Ruffles of chocolate locks came into his sight. So that's the idiot who tried to ruin my passionate kiss with squid ink pasta - he thought, suppressing the comment on the other's stupidly bright emerald eyes.