Sparkly Trash

last few seconds.

This isn't fandom related, but I like it.
◇◇Big ol' trigger warning for if cutting and suicide triggers you: Do not read this. Period. If this topic causes problems for you, it is the focus of this story.◇◇
You have been warned.

He presses the blade to his skin.
It's all been orchestrated.
It's all been planned, every bit.
This is no accident, it is a therapeutic chain of events he thinks in a daze, and it's almost enough to get him smirking.
Almost.

The letters lie on his bed, where his family will find them when they come to wake him up tomorrow morning.
His hair is neat, his clothes prim and proper. Wouldn't want to give extra fuss to the funeral director, right?
Not that he wanted to be buried, as he had specified in his letter to his parents. He was a waste of space and resources alive, and he didn't see why he needed to be that when he was dead, too.
No, the sweet release of death was just that, a sweet release.

His throat ached with unshed tears and unspoken words.
His eyes blurred with briney sorrow, obscured by the darkness clouding his thoughts.
His ears strained to hear any footsteps over the sound of blood rushing in his ears one last time.
His skin screeched in protest as he pressed the blade to his fragile skin once again.

The red came up in rivulets, eventually turning to wells, enough to drown in, which he supposed he was doing.
Slash after slash, each one representing his failings. He counted ten, five on each wrist.

He looked in the mirror one last time.
He saw his face reflected back, but drowned of all light and life, all happiness and flesh.
He saw his body, shrunk so small since the beginning of this journey he couldn't pinpoint when he embarked upon.
His clothes, his Sunday best, laundered and ironed.
It's a shame to get blood on them. almost.

So close the darkest recesses of his brain whispered so close to the end, but are you too coward to do it?
The voice was couth and slippery, slithering into the corners of his psyche and making itself at home.

Finally, he brought the blood stained blade up to his throat.
It's silvery metal glistened dangerously in the weak, fake light of his bathroom.
It was all washed out.
Everything.
And yet, colors had never seemed more vivid, scents and sounds never so sharp.
If was almost as if his body was making a last ditch attempt to remind him why he should stay alive, though the basement bathroom was a poor place to do it.

The blood dripped off of his wrists, onto the floor, spreading a wildfire of red across the linoleum.

He saw a toothbrush in the toothbrush holder.
It was his little sister's toothbrush.
She would spend most of her life without an older brother.
He, unfortunately, could not bring himself to care.

He brought the blade up to his throat, pressing it gently into the sensitive skin.
He increases the pressure and quicksilver pain flared across the area.
He increases the pressure a little more, and the skin breaks open, dotting his sickly skin with beads of blood.

He finally looks around his room a little more, capturing one last view of his life, his world, before the curtains close on the grand play that is his life.
He increases the pressure, pulls back, and swipes, pushing all the venom in his blood into it.

He expected it to be quick, but no.
Pain goes coursing through his veins, his heart beats erratically, working overtime to do the opposite of what his conscious mind wants: keep him alive.
Finally, floating.
His vision is darkening, narrowing.
Narrowing, darkening.
Finally, dark.
Not a pinprick of light.
Not a ray to be found in the darkness of death.