There was no one home.
He carelessly flung his school bag on the floor in a corner. He wanted to be quick; his parents weren't due home for an hour, but who knew how long this would take?
He walked hurriedly to the enormous staircase, and began to make his way up. He seemed to slow down with each step, until he was almost at a stop about halfway.
He faced the balcony and gripped the railing tightly. The smooth polished would felt cold beneath his skin.
He looked down at his knuckles, which had turned a sickly white from lack of blood. He stared at them for a few more moments, suddenly feeling dizzy.
He inhaled deeply, and then turned to walk the rest of the way up the staircase.
He walked directly to his room, without even taking in the beautiful vases and extravagant tapestries; they meant nothing to him. So much money had been put into the appearance of this house, but visitors appreciated it a lot more than he did.
He kicked off his school shoes, and touched his fingers to his tie. His instinct was to pull it off, but instead he tightened it as much as he could, until he found himself gagging.
He removed his grip.
The tie was still tight enough to limit his breathing.
Maybe that would help.
He made his way to his bed, and then to the bedside table. In the top drawer he found some bottles of anti-depressants.
Thank God his parents had bought them in bulk.
He picked up all the bottles and took them into his en-suite, closing the door carefully behind him. He put them onto his kitchen sink, and quickly removed his razor. He smashed it against the porcelain, easily breaking the flimsy plastic casing.
As he picked up the bare blade, he caught sight of his reflection. His skin was pale, his lips were flushed, and his eyes were lit with anticipation. His hair was messy, and parts of his fringe were beginning to stick to his forehead.
He sat down with his back against the door. Staring at the creamy, soft skin underneath his arm, his lips broke into a smile, as he slashed quickly and deeply down the centre.
As crimson blood welled out of the crevice, he took a sharp breath.
After a quick pause, he cut again, and then again.
Frenzied, harsh deep.
And then the other arm.
The pain meant nothing to him; it was a physical feeling. The pain was welcome to him, because it represented the termination of all pain.
Stopping, he placed the blade calmly on the floor in front of him. The blood was coming in rivers now, spilling onto the pristine white marble and staining it red.
He pulled himself to his knees and filled a glass full of water. Ready, he took a sip, and then a pill.
He took another sip, and another pill.
He kept going, gaining speed until the first bottle was completely empty. He started smiling, excited. He started on the second bottle.
He was feeling numb. Strangely detached.
He saw things happening a beat after they had done so.
He didn't stop taking the pills.
The only thing that could make him stop now would be unconsciousness.
But he was slowing. Floating.
He was covered in blood.
He heard a noise.
A door shut.
Someone called his name.
His Mum or Dad? What was the difference again?
He directed his gaze upwards, swallowing another pill. He should do something here. But what?
He raised his arm slowly, and grasped the door handle.
He was burning. His head was burning. And so fuzzy.
He managed to pull himself up to the door. He was scraping his nails on the wood in an attempt to stay upright.
He turned the lock.
As it clicked, he slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the door.
His hand slid into his lap, and he slipped into blackness.
A/N - Interested?