The veins on his hands stood out like blue ribbons. Like the ribbons blocking a doorway before a special event. He could see where to cut them.

Taking the knife in his hand, he brought the blade to his wrist, and pressed the tip into his skin. The red carpet unrolled down his arm, dripping to the kitchen floor.

His eyes, wide, clouded, narrowed slightly at the sight. The little pinch of pain he had felt at first had all ready disappated. He pushed the knife deeper, and the carpet of blood flowed out more freely. Suddenly, he ripped the blade across his wrist. The blood gushed out, then slowed down to a steady flow.

The thudding of his heart echoed to his brain, blurring his vision with swirls of black and red. He sank to the floor and sat, his back against the cabinets, watching the blood seep from his arm.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. A watery voice floated to him from far away.

Daddy? The voice said.

His wrist pulsed at each beat of his heart, his muscles twitching with pain. He ignored the voice, for what good is listening to the voices you know have been dead for years?

You're bleeding! The voice cried. Why, Daddy?

"It's not me," he muttered, giving in so easily to the voices. "Mommy's the one bleeding." His forehead knitted together in a frown. "Don't look at me like that. Daddy was only trying to help her. Only...trying..." He groaned and rolled his head against the hard cabinet door.

Why, Daddy? The voice asked again.

"I didn't mean to hurt her," he whispered.

He began to feel weak from loss of blood, and his lower body became numb and heavy. He couldn't move, but he also didn't try to.

"Fix me some coffee before I fall asleep," he grumbled, his eyes still closed. "Some coffee..."

Daddy...

Suddenly the man fell over onto his side and darkness flooded his mind. Unconciousness pulled him into a world of swirling black nothingness, continuously falling in complete silence.

As the last of the blood drained from his body, the man died without ever waking. The last thing he thought of was a picture his wife and child, one he had torn apart long ago.