He's thinking about how much it would hurt. He wants to open his veins the long way and let his life bleed away. He's never cut himself before, not intentionally, but he has injured himself as a child. He's had scrapes, gashes, bruises, and probably a cut or two. He can't think of anything without an impact though, can't think of any time when he could clearly remember simply skin being rent. He can't recall any experience to compare to the one he is planning.

He doesn't think he'll be able to do it if he practices. He's virtually certain that he'll lose his nerve once he has an idea of how painful it will be. Any action he takes will have to be decisive, and not preparatory. And besides, the more he clearly prepares, the higher a chance there is that he'll be observed and prevented. He's certain now what must be done, and knows that he should take what steps he can to prevent anyone from interfering. This is what is best for him.

He's thinking about how much it will hurt. He's not thinking about how to make it less painful, or more painful, but easy. It'll be painful however he chooses to eventually do it, and so decides to keep it simple. Whatever way it is easiest for him to take decisive action is the proper way. A blade, he decides. Messy, but quick.

He doesn't think about what will happen afterward. What is there to think about? He's miserable now, and he's unable to foresee a time when he won't be miserable. What's wrong with taking action to prevent future misery? Four years hurts less than five, right? It's only been a year so far. A single year will hurt even less than four.

His parents want him to attend community college. At the end of his senior year, as his chain-smoking tendency picked up, his grades slipped far enough to discourage any college from accepting him. He hadn't even bothered to apply. What was the point? When every moment is wasted, why bother doing anything? He'd rather lie around at home where he can have a cigarette whenever his thoughts become too painful. The last semester of high school had been hellish, but people had at least stopped bothering him. He never stopped to wonder why.

He has no future, and that much is clear. Taking his own life is the right thing to do; life is precious, and so why let his own life waste away in a nauseating blur of pointless day after pointless day? He knows that what he's doing now is wrong. He's wasting life. It's just a happy bonus that he gets to be put out of his misery now, that his misery ends now instead of lasting until he dies a miserable death of old age, or whatever else might happen. His parents will miss him, he realizes, but they'll move on eventually. They'll cope, they'll adapt. Hopefully they'll realize that he's made the right decision, that there wasn't any point to him living longer. They'll deal with it.

He's thinking of how painful it will be. He's not sure what he believes in regard to death, but he realizes that he has a certain attachment to his current melancholy. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray that lies beside him between drags, he knows there's a certain peace to his life. There's simply nothing; no responsibility, no obligations, no failure to meet expectations. His parents are the only people that are even aware how he spends each day, and they're not too concerned. Each day is a day of silent thought that would be delightful if the peace didn't have with it a certain internal turmoil. I'm worthless. My life is meaningless.

He's afraid of what might come, but there's simply no point in continuing. There's nothing to look forward to, and there are in fact many things to not look forward to. He doesn't want to continue to be a financial strain to his parents, doesn't want to make their lives harder with his meaningless and pointless presence. He has nothing to live for. He missed a chance at happiness with his own stupidity and contentment. He's aware that he won't ever have a chance to be as happy again.

He hopes that she's happy. He knows which college she's at, and he knows that it wasn't her first or even second choice, that it is neither of the schools that she truly wanted to attend. She's not even pursuing a degree in anything she's interested in. She's making something of her life instead, working toward a career that will put food on the table. She has her priorities in order. She deserves to be happy, and hopefully she can be without working on art.

She should be happy, and she hopefully will be now that he isn't there to hold her back. He hasn't heard from her in a year. It's odd that it feels as though he has so quickly gone from being unable to think of a time without her, to being unable to think of a time with her. He can only assume that she has been fine without him. She's moving on. And likewise, he is too, in the way that one without a future does.