Read the damn title

This is a story i wrote for a school project. It is pretty much against all religions creation myths so please don't take it as offensive. It's about how death was created.

Dream was alone, in a sense. He still had patches. He still had Badboyhalo, or Bad, as he called him. He still had the voices, and as violent as they were, they were good company. Sure. His friends had left him. Sure, his family hated him. Still, he had done what he wanted. He had gathered them into a family. But I'm getting off track. He felt, well, alone. He was desperate for a form of comfort. But he was also desperate for it to end. So, he did just that. He ended it.