He stumbled up the stairs to his apartment in a daze, face sticky with wet makeup, breath stinking of and odd and not-so-good mix of wine, vodka, and soju. Slamming the door behind him, not bothering to lock it in the hopes of a murderer taking care of all of his problems in the dead of night, he made his way to his bedroom. A fashion designer’s assistant’s salary wasn’t enough to afford much, but Ren had been quite pleased with the little one bedroom apartment with a living room he had spent his weekends fixing up. It was his sanctuary, though it shouldn’t have been, given just how many people had invaded it. Nothing should have been sacred at that point. But Ren was quite content, and comforted by the fact that this pretty little apartment with all his dreams on the walls, would be where he died.

The was something quite lyrical about the way Ren pictured the scene, though he was sure anyone else would have found it creepy, his pristine white bed sheets stained with crimson. His body, paler than ever, bled dry, but still beautiful. His hand clutching a gleaming sharp razor blade in his hand. It just sounded so romantic, which just went to  show how twisted he was becoming. With this image in his mind, he raced like a drug addict to his salvation as he reached his desk. Scattering tracing sheets he had so lovingly sorted and fixed that very morning, he ripped open the drawer, seizing the polished blade.

Rolling up his jacket’s sleeve he bared the swath of pale skin that hardly ever saw the light of day. Four fairly even scars, one still fresh and carefully bandaged. The tally marks of the most difficult moments of his life. His countdown. He held the blade, trembling, eyes blurring with tears. He battled with the idea of just slashing his wrist, ending it all, that this was a stupid idea, surely five was enough…But no, he had strength. With a quick diagonal slash he crossed from the top to the bottom across all four marks. The fifth tally streamed blood down his arm, and he reveled in the sight.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. Five. He was living on borrowed time now. The next one would be the last, would send him over the edge. Would finish everything finally. Carefully, now, he rooted through the drawer to find his carefully kept bandages and salve. After cleaning the new wound he bandaged