(no subject)
He screams. Screams until he doesn’t have a voice anymore. Screams until there’s a vague taste of copper on his tongue. He screams.
Screaming isn’t enough.
He wants to run. He wants to die. Pay for what he’s done. Pay for what he’s ruined. He has to pay. He has to hurt outside as much as he hurts inside. He has to pay. He ruined everything. He always ruins everything.
Bony fingers clench to fists that pound against himself, bruises rising with every blow. Purple blossoms on legs and stomach, under hair, places no one will see. Muds won’t see, Muds doesn’t want to see him anymore anyway. He won’t see. One, two, three blows to the head and he blinks dizzily. His eyes won’t quite focus. He doesn’t know if it’s his head or the pills he took but things are going blurry and grey. He has to be sick.
Half-dissolved pills, bile swirled with red. It hurts and his vision goes and for a moment he thinks his wish might come true, he might just die there in the bathroom. The thought makes him laugh; laughter that would be hysterical if there was any sound to it. Instead, it’s just a choked, rasping thing that makes tears trail down his nearly white cheeks.
He has to lie down. He’s very tired. So tired he can’t even move anymore. So he curls up, there on the floor. The tile is cold, it feels nice. Soon he’s out. His eyes won’t stay open and he’s out.
Stu won’t be at school today.
Screaming isn’t enough.
He wants to run. He wants to die. Pay for what he’s done. Pay for what he’s ruined. He has to pay. He has to hurt outside as much as he hurts inside. He has to pay. He ruined everything. He always ruins everything.
Bony fingers clench to fists that pound against himself, bruises rising with every blow. Purple blossoms on legs and stomach, under hair, places no one will see. Muds won’t see, Muds doesn’t want to see him anymore anyway. He won’t see. One, two, three blows to the head and he blinks dizzily. His eyes won’t quite focus. He doesn’t know if it’s his head or the pills he took but things are going blurry and grey. He has to be sick.
Half-dissolved pills, bile swirled with red. It hurts and his vision goes and for a moment he thinks his wish might come true, he might just die there in the bathroom. The thought makes him laugh; laughter that would be hysterical if there was any sound to it. Instead, it’s just a choked, rasping thing that makes tears trail down his nearly white cheeks.
He has to lie down. He’s very tired. So tired he can’t even move anymore. So he curls up, there on the floor. The tile is cold, it feels nice. Soon he’s out. His eyes won’t stay open and he’s out.
Stu won’t be at school today.