There was a commotion downstairs. He could hear the sounds of an engine somewhere in the distance, his eyes didn’t waver from his wrists, flowing with blood that landed sickeningly on the floor. In his hands was a razor, tightly gripped between clumsy fingers, its blades carving slithers of cuts and scars on his arm, trailing up up up, up there somewhere near his elbows. The commotion got louder, and that was the exact reason why he was doing what he was doing, and as furnitures snapped and their wooden legs toppled beneath them, there was also something that snapped inside him. Craze filled eyes, filled with a desire of something wicked, if it was fulfilled something would be irretrievable.

    Shaky hands, fingers, arms. Legs. Knees buckling. Tangled hair, tangled because of the sleepless nights, tangled from the abuse of scratchy fingers which pulled and pulled and pulled. There was something that snapped inside him that day, all self-restraint was gone. He was lost, not in his thoughts. He was lost in the world of lust, lust for death, without a map. A dangerous place without navigation. And so his shaky, trembling fingers kept becoming more rigid, more firm. Leaving clear, defined marks instead of shallow scratches. More blood. More red. Tainting his eyes and his soul and his mind. Ragged breaths, becoming fainter. Blood flows down his torso, staining black garments, thighs and feet. No more crazed eyes, not sharp anymore but now dull.

   His eyelids are falling, failing on him, unable to relish the time anymore, pain beyond extremities both physically and mentally. His mind still wanders, and commotion still ensues. A toppling body much like his mother’s downstairs, although resulted by different causes, and his mother’s pain was created by her own husband, while the boy had created himself a beast that can’t be tamed.

  Somebody save him.

>:/