The Art of Death

How could all of them had been so oblivious?

The boy screamed for help from them all - from every single person he knew and not one person heard him, no matter how loud he could've screamed. How?

How do adults, people who have lived their lives, not hear the screams of a child?

How do the people around him everyday not see the dulling blue eyes? The pain that was drawing the life out of him?

They fell into oblivion as he fell deeper and deeper into his thoughts.

One day, every hour, every second was elongated. He was living life slower then everyone, giving his thoughts time to torture him farther.

The death of the boy would haunt his friends and family for the rest of eternity, his voice would forever echo in their heads, to never be heard again.

His ghost watches from afar, hoping his voice haunts them, that the knowledge of how they could've helped him tortures them until the day of their death. Because now? Now he was all alone again.

School? Alone.

Home? Alone.

Just always, always, always alone.

No one could see him now, and that was his own torture. Now, he truly was alone.