Final (or is it?)
His Final Homework
There is a homework which I have delayed answering. Tonight, I am certain, is the deadline.
Nothing was the same anymore.
Their glances, their laughs, their conversations, their presence - everything was different.
They forced themselves to act as if nothing has changed, as if nothing was wrong.
But that was impossible for him.
Everything was different.
It would be a lie to reminisce.
He carelessly grabbed the bag and materials which he planned on using that night. To expose them then and there would be an unnecessary risk. It was better to wait.
He rushed down the stairs only to find his family still playing around.
He curiously wondered if they could feel the difference in him.
He harmlessly pondered if they could predict his dangerous mood. And, he allowed himself to inquire, if they could, would they care enough stop him?
But instead of his hopeful thoughts, none of them minded him positively at all.
They gave him quick glances of displeasure before ignoring him completely.
He wasn't loved.
But he didn't mind.
He merely shrugged their actions off and sat comfortably at a corner.
All of them were merely insignificant figures who had enough confidence and pride to betray him, he convinced himself.
No, he did not mind them at all.
Finally, the lights were dimmed, the television was shut off and everyone but he relocated to their rooms on the upper floor.
He became a sole figure abandoned on a starless night.
But he did not mind.
Detach yourself from society, he reminded himself. Escape from reality.
An upward curve tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he smiled to himself for the first time that night.
He did not mind their actions, but his own were a completely different concept.
He then charged towards the bathroom at an astonishing speed. Once he had entered, he firmly locked the door and leaned back on the furthest wall.
Darkness engulfed him completely, and he embraced it. Only when he was entirely hidden could he not be obliged to stare at society straight in the eye (albeit blankly) and inspect his imperfect self. In the darkness, he could pretend that he lived in a perfect world; he could pretend that he was actually cared for.
"But there’s no time to think of negligible thoughts!" he suddenly shouted in realization. "I should complete my homework before the deadline!"
His homework, he remembered, was issued to him several months before. He himself was the teacher who ordered it. He decided the deadline. Therefore, he promised himself that although drafts were largely welcomed, the actual paper had to be submitted only when he was forced into the corner for the last time.
Tonight was the "last time."
With his thoughts aside, he carelessly emptied the contents of his bag: a single notebook, a cheap pen and it. He urgently opened the pages to what he confidently believed was a blank page and began writing down his screeching thoughts and emotions. The pen instantly came in contact with the coarse paper and was heartlessly dragged around to what was supposed look like words.
While recalling his plan, he spontaneously wrote,
One, inconspicuously gather all the materials needed.
He smiled triumphantly to himself. For the first time in a while, he had prepared well. The notebook was there, so was the pen, and it was present as well.
"Everyone’s jaws would've dropped to see me this prepared,” he whispered to himself triumphantly. “But they’re not here."
A pause.
Oh well, he thought casually, it’s their loss.
He then placed a check mark beside the number and continued writing.
Two, get into the mood.
He raised an eyebrow.
If “mood” meant the gathering of pressure, a tinge of psychopathy and slight contradiction, then yes - he was in the “mood.”
He checked that as well.
Three, cut.
"There!" he shouted loudly as he threw his arms and materials into the air. They fell to the ground with a slight thud, but he did not notice them at all. Nothing mattered - only that.
That was what he was waiting all day for. That was what he was waiting all his days for.
Check,
Check,
Check!
His insane laughter filled the darkness. He was finally going to finish his long-due homework! It was time. It was time!
He then reached for it in the darkness.
It was a Swedish pocket knife.
It was his family’s last gift to him.
It was there to complete his homework.
He then held it close enough for the sharp blade to softly kiss his frail skin. Go on, his only friend, the smooth, gleaming knife tempted. Don’t be afraid. Go on, continue.
While smiling softly, he decided to follow the alluring whisper.
With a sudden blast of courage, he heartlessly slashed open a portion of his arm. Thick, hot crimson liquid immediately gushed out.
It oozed out gently. Gradually. Irrevocably.
Unaccording to the plan, he let out a shrill, high-pitched shriek.
So it would hurt.
He twitched noticeably as he felt a sliver of blood slide across his arm before softly hitting the floor in tiny droplets. The stinging increased as the pain from the fresh cut travelled throughout his entire arm. His body trembled violently, instinctively.
"Is freedom supposed to feel like this?" he asked himself unsurely. "Is it really supposed to hurt?"
He bit his lower lip to contain an agony-filled cry while blinking back the tears which screamed to be let out. His plan was almost deemed useless. He wanted to complete his assigned homework (he really did), but it was difficult. Painful.
Crimson ink gradually trickled down his skin; its deep, captivating paint-red was a great contrast to the pale of the paper. The darkness fortunately hid the masterpiece from his naturally delicate eyes, but the scent was still inevitable. He had to breathe but instantly pulled back his efforts due to the disgusting metallic smell which filled the room.
He wondered for a moment if he should stop slitting while he could still call for help.
He pondered for a second if he should save himself while society was still analyzing his work.
"No," he decided, "I can’t stop. I still have to submit something, anything by the end of the night. I have to submit my paper."
Society would never linger long enough to approve his work. He already knew that truth. It was only time to accept it.
He mustered as much energy as he could manage before holding the knife’s thin handle vertically.
“I have to go all-out. I will finish. I need to score perfectly in this final exam!”
He cut open numerous parts of his wrist with the knife's tip. The throbbing pain raced across his arm and pounced on his other body parts. But he had to continue. Only seconds later, he tightened his grip on the slippery blade and began to carelessly rip apart the other sections of his skin. He did not plan where the blade hit, he just had to continue. Blood splurged out in all directions seemingly without aiming to stop. His face, arms, stomach, thighs and almost every portion of his body bled profusely.
He was damaged. Intimately. Consistently.
Sweat continuously trailed down his forehead, and he gasped for air.
But he could not pause. There was absolutely no turning back. It was too late.
"I..I…" Dizziness began to overwhelm him. "I have to finish." He inhaled as much air as he could manage. "I have to end it all."
For his homework to be completed before the nearing due date, only one final answer had to be carefully written down.
He reached for the vital vein on his neck and caressed it momentarily. Compared to the other parts of his body, there was a minuscule amount of fat and an enormous amount of delicate veins in that exact portion. His chance for life depended on that one, externally insignificant piece of tissue.
He could try to turn back during the last second, of course, but in the back of his mind he knew it was already too late. Even if someone rushed him to the hospital while avoiding the most serious speed limit, he would not make it.
He was already bleeding to death.
"Goodbye," he silently bid himself farewell. "Goodbye, everyone."
It suddenly crossed his mind that the only person who would ever glance at him now was himself. That was supposed to be the purpose of the locked door, but he felt strangely lonely for some reason.
"Darn it," he whispered while momentarily forgetting the external agony, "I still want to be loved."
He still craved for love. Naturally. Desperately.
But I have to stop this desire, he thought weakly as the pain surged back. I should just hurry and finish it all. I’ve gone so far, too far, to start regretting anything.
The knife decisively made its way to his neck and the vein which led to his depleted heart.
One,
Two,
Three.
He pushed it down. Blood immediately gushed out and trailed down his open neck. Without a hint, the vein's vital spot was actually missed by half a centimeter. But countless of other veins were still hit. The last straw of pain was pulled. He fell limply to the ground.
The floor was thickly wet - the liquid was most likely his blood - and the marble was contrastingly cold compared to the consistently hot fluid. He laid there uncertainly as the darkness began to produce oddly-shaped figures and random colors.
La la la, I spy with my little eye…the color red! Oh, it’s blue now. Or is it green?
Reality was slipping away; he was becoming delusional.
Hmm...I don't know why, but my skin feels especially smooth tonight. Maybe I overdosed on lotion earlier and it has yet to dry up.
At that moment, subtle footsteps on the other side of the bathroom door were heard.
He would not dwell on them.
He could not dwell on them.
He was already standing outside of Death’s door.
"Hello, is anyone in there?" one of the family members, most likely his eldest brother (the one who out-shined him in extracurricular activities) asked as he knocked on the bathroom door.
"Hey, why does it smell so strange?” the eldest brother asked someone else.
"I don’t know," the second brother (the one who always, always, outdid him when it came to academics) replied, "but I think I smell this a lot in the hospital where I work at."
A second later, the two must have pieced together the puzzle as they struggled with all their might to open the door.
"HEY, ARE YOU ALRIGHT? WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" they shouted blatantly. "HURRY AND ANSWER US! OPEN THE DOOR!"
He smiled to himself in obvious amusement. They would finally be able to meet with the consequences of their cold actions. They would catch him in his self-made pool and only be able to imagine how much trouble he underwent to drown himself in it.
If ever his family would choose to change after the door collapses, it would be in vain - no medicine would be needed to ease his pain because he felt none.
He was already mentally detached from all his wounds.
He released a soft laugh from his tired mouth. ”I did it,” he whispered softly, almost apathetically. He purposely ignored all the pleas coming from behind the door.
"I finished my homework!" He laughed in between coarse coughs and endless gasps for air. "I passed it!"
Loud and hurried footsteps were heard, but they were all in the distance. He could no longer comprehend them. They were entirely null.
"ARE YOU ALRIGHT?" (His sister, the youngest and therefore the most (revoltingly) likable, shouted.)
"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US?" (His mother, the one ignored his requests for security merely to continue working, cried out.)
"WE’RE GOING TO GET YOU OUT OF THERE!" (His father, the one who set his expectations so high and was never, not once in his life, satisfied with him, firmly concluded.) The boys tried to pry the door open while the girls frantically dialed 911, but he knew it was already too late.
"Just hang in there! We’re calling an ambulance, so don’t do anything to hurt yourself any further! Did you hear us? HANG IN THERE!"
He used his last reserve of energy to shake his head in disapproval.
"It’s too late," he whispered lightly. He was directing his last words to them, his once beloved family members, but only the silence was listening.
Of course, he thought, a hint of sadness flashing through his corpse-like eyes. Society would continue to stay ignorant and detached until the last possible second.
No one would be able to hear him.
He knocked on Death’s door after he had hopelessly whispered,
"You’re too late."
…
But it wasn’t. Help is never too ignorant or far away. Death didn’t open the door.
He was to be saved.
-cmz
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