Author's Note: Yeah, this is gonna come off really depressing. That's just how I write. I struggled with depression for two years, so yeah… I'm dealing with is right now, and writing this is helping me cope.
And sorry it took so long for me to update. My life was just so busy, I just didn't have any spare time.
Anyways…
Short A/N, huh?
Here 'tis! (I love saying/typing that)

Vincent slowly opened his eyes.
"Time to wake up to catch the bus, Vincent." Mrs. Jenkins said, gently shaking him. He rolled over and noticed his arm was really sore. He remembered briefly what'd happened the night before. He pushed it out of his mind, got up, and went through his normal short routine of getting ready. He went downstairs, and was surprised to see a plate filled with toast and bacon. He took a piece of toast and ate it, then Arissa came down to catch the bus with him.
The bus driver handed him a slip, which he let Arissa fill out, since he knew none of the information needed except name, grade, and date of birth. The rest was basic contact information; none of which he knew.

Once they arrived at school, Arissa insisted he sit with her and Jenny at lunch, since he was in their lunch period. He agreed, and then they parted ways, as they both headed off to their first period

When Arissa arrived in English, she sat down be Jenny.
"Hey, you know Vincent, that boy you said was 'different' yesterday?" Arissa asked
"Yeah" Jenny replied, curious why this was the subject of their conversation again.
"Well, basically, my family took him in. He's sitting with us at lunch today, okay?"
Jenny processed the information, then agreeing to the seating situation for lunch, saying "Okay… mind explaining that?"
"It's a really long story… plus I don't think he'd appreciate me spreading his personal business to somebody he doesn't know. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you himself. "
The two continued rambling on until class started.

Vincent kept his word, and sat with the two girls at lunch. They made polite small talk. Arissa was glad he was talking to at least one other human being at school. Even though he didn't say much, it still counted as social interaction. From what Jenny had told her, he didn't ever talk to other people at school. She felt like she had actually made some sort of difference.


Mrs. Jenkins and her husband entered Vincent's abandoned apartment. It shocked then, how few clothes he owned. Two plain colored t-shirts, one black undershirt, three pairs of pants, three pairs of sock, two pairs of boxers, and one spare pair of shoes, which looked too small for a fifteen year old. They might fit thirteen year old, maybe, but not a fifteen year old. In fact, all of his clothes were too small. They resolved to take him shopping.
His room was plain and simple, white walls, pale blue sheets, and hard wood floors. A cheap dresser contained the few clothes he had. They came across several razor blades, and a knife, with red streaks staining the smooth, non-serrated blade, signaling he had used it on himself. They also found the 9mm pistol that had almost granted the boy's death wish. The also discovered a photo under his pillow, of what looked like Vincent and his mother; except Vincent had scratched out his face, and most of his body.
They noticed the strong resemblance Vincent and his mother. He had her large brown eyes, pale complexion, diamond shaped face, and straight dark brown. He was her every spitting image.
Getting everything together didn't take long, since he had so few possessions. They loaded their pick-up truck with his clothes and sheets. He had brought all his hygiene products the night before. With that, they left, locking the door behind them.


After school, the couple took Vincent aside, and asked if he'd like to go shopping. Vincent, being the shy and introverted boy he was, said he was just fine, but the couple insisted. Finally, he gave in and agreed.
They headed off to the local mall, an awkward silence filling the car. Neither of the parents knew what to say to the boy. Finally, Mr. Jenkins asked him,
"How was your day?" in attempt to start a conversation. Vincent swiftly replied
"It was okay."
The short-lived conversation died after that, as they pulled into the parking lot.


Vincent put up his new clothes. He now had six more long-sleeved, solid colored shirts, three more pairs of jeans, a new pack of underwear and socks, and a pair of black converse. He was thankful for them taking him in, but he felt uncomfortable with them buying him clothes. But he was still thankful though, because either way, he was in desperate need of clothes.
He laid back on his bed, closing his eyes, although it wasn't even after dinner yet. The unwelcomed image of his mother's eyes flashed into his head, his eyes snapping open in a millisecond.
An upset mood crept upon him, slowly, like a cat upon a mouse, hell bent on killing its prey. Negative thoughts seeped through to his mind as the mood became stronger.
Nobody really cares.
You killed your mom.
You have no friends.
You have no reason to continue on.
Greif and sorrow intertwined, the most deadly combination of moods, at least for Vincent. Eventually, he didn't see anything but the cold darkness. He needed to escape it, even if only for a few minutes. He reached into his pocket. He had taken a razor earlier that morning, broken off it head, and then opening it up in order to obtain its fresh, sharp blades. To him, it was a simple process, almost a routine. The three blades were in his pocket, fresh and unused. The took one out, and rolled up his sleeve. He held the razor to his upper arm, and pressed it against his skin, dragging it across. A brilliant red line or blood surfaced on his arm, and Vincent felt a strange sense of relaxation overtake him. He repeated two more times. He didn't remember to lock his door though, and on the fourth cut, Arissa welcomed herself in without knocking.
"Vincent, it's time for-" she broke off when she realized what he had done. "What is this? You did that? Why?" she whispered, walking over, grabbing his arm.
"You wouldn't understand." Vincent stated, in a cold, dead tone. They sat there for a few minutes as she processed what exactly he had done.
"I have to show my parents, just, come with me. Leave your sleeve up." She ordered after a few minutes. Vincent sighed, wobbling as he stood. He feared her parents would be mad at him and kick him out. Heart racing, he walked down, and Arissa grabbed his arm, showing her mother what had happened.
Instead, they reacted the exact opposite. They were upset, granted, but not mad. They were upset with themselves. They wondered if they could have done anything to prevent it, such as let him know he could talk to them anytime. It hurt them; they felt like they had failed him. Mrs. Jenkins took him to the bathroom to sterilize the wounds.
Vincent just stared at the ground in shame while Mrs. Jenkins cleaned the cuts with peroxide and wrapped them in gauze.
"You know you can talk to us, right? You don't have to do that… please, don't do that again… talk to me, Arissa, my husband, for god's sake, talk to the dog! Just don't do that… please…" she begged the boy. He continued to stare at the ground, lost for word, searching for something to say in the dark cave of his mind, without a light.
"Why do you care so much about me?" he finally spoke up
"Because I have a protective instinct, not just because I'm a mother, but the instinct to protect just comes naturally. Arissa's like that too… she just naturally want's to protect people, and help them…" they sat in silence for a few minutes. She continued to wipe the wounds with cotton swabs covered in peroxide.
"Can you tell me why?" She asked, causing him to again search for words. Finally he found them.
"The dark mood just creeps up on me, slowly, silently, like poisonous venom through veins. Finally, it gets to the point where that's all there is, clouding your mind. The pain can break through the clouds, like the strongest of sunshine. I can't say you don't feel the pain wound pulsing, and the blood seeping, but at least you don't feel the darkness surrounding you, for just one second..." He explained. She took in the information, processed it. She understood why he felt so much pain; she knew losing a parent so young was painful. She didn't know the pain of being left alone to deal with it, though.


Mrs. Jenkins sat in bed with her husband watching TV. It was some old show that she had watched often as a child, though she could not remember its name.
"Do you think he needs to go somewhere for treatment, Helen?" Mr. Jenkins asked his wife. She thought for a moment, then replying,
"I think he might need to… I don't want him to have to go off, but if that's what it takes…."