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I had finally done it. Cut. After years of staring at the blade that now lay dulled and russet colored on my floor, I had given in to its beckoning, and it felt great. Not great in the sense that I enjoyed the nearly intolerable pain, but because in that moment, I remembered what it was like to feel. Nobody really understands it, at least not until it happens to them, but depression drains you of your humanity and leaves you this heavy-hearted, hollow shell that kind of wanders about in that clichéd zombie manner. Now, at least, I had something to remind me of my mortality, even if it came in the form of two deep, vertical cuts that formed an almost double-helix down my wrist. I flipped myself over so that my body faced away from the door. Bro walking in and seeing me like this would be far more painful than anything I could ever do to myself. I loved Bro; he was an asshole, yes, but as I lay, presumably dying, it’d only make sense for me to admit that the only moderately parental figure I’d ever had in my life be the one that I love. Bro was never around the house much, in fact I think I saw Lil’ Cal more often than I did him. However, he did care about me- I was basically his kid. He was the first one to notice the difference in my mood, and perhaps the only one to ever act upon it with kindness. The day Bro told me I’d been acting funny was the day I explained to him that I felt like utter shit almost all of the time. With that out there, he immediately took me to get some sort of head medication so that the crushing numbness in my brain would stop interfering with my life. The medicine didn’t help however. Really, it was just something I took to calm Bro’s nerves. ‘Naw man, I’d tell him. I’ve got my meds, I’m safe, I’m feeling fine. It was a lie, but it helped him sleep at night. If he saw me now, I think he’d have a stroke. The police would come by next morning and think it was some sort of ritualistic, brotherly suicide. It wasn’t though, and personally, I don’t even think what I’m doing deserves to the title of “suicide”. Suicides upset people, suicides are tragic. I’m not a tragedy, I’m not someone you’d look twice at or someone who you’d really miss bumping into on the streets. I was just ridding the world of a pest, the way you’d thoughtlessly squish a bug that crawled too slowly over your computer monitor. That was all I was, an annoyance. My head was starting to feel lighter now, and the rapid thumping of my heart had faded into an almost inaudible bumpbump every now and then- it wasn’t much, just enough to remind me that I was still alive. I looked down at my wrist as the crimson turned to scarlet and the heavy, painstaking flow of blood that had earlier accompanied the deep wounds now seemed to trickle out in little spurts. I felt my vision double and then blur, and my body lurched with the unexpected rapid pound of my heart. It was only once, but it nearly burst from my chest. I pressed my limp body down, pushing myself further into the bloodied pile of blankets cocooning me. I was cold, shivering, trembling. It was pathetic. And then I remembered that the shaking boy, swaddled in cloths of his own blood, was me, and I knew I deserved this death. I’d been a coward my whole life, and now I was taking it in the same fashion. I could no longer see. Everything was dark. The pounding in my ears came with an intolerable pressure that pushed on my skull from the inside. And yet I was almost glad, almost glad to know I was dying. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen my brain was receiving, but in that moment when the world turned to static and my sight to empty whiteness, I felt happy. Although I was blind now, I could hear the frantic banging on my door. Bro had come home and soon, he’d come in here and find me. I allowed myself a smile- Bro would want me to die happy, wouldn’t he? And this would be the proof. A bloody boy with a smile. I was dead before he could cry.