you grab the doorknob. the once-polished metal is cold to the touch as you open the door and step in. You see him there, a cowboy killer in his hand, smoke hanging idly arround him. His long hair is greasy, you can tell even in the dim light. This place stinks of cigarettes and suicide. "Hey," he says, not even lifting his chin from his chest, "How's it going?" His voice is deep and mellow. You dont answer.
"Heard you were sick," you say. "Yeah. Lets not talk about that now," comes his answer, "how are you doing?"
"Dont give me that, man, whats the matter with you? last time i saw you like this was right before..." The memories are too much for you to finish the sentence. After a minute of anguished cursing, he finally turns his eyes to you. They are bloodshot from tears. A surge of discomfort rushes through your body. "Ive never known him to cry," you think.
"Thats it man, its over. game over, im out, say hello to your kids that ill never get to meet." His words come out like shards of glass. Glass that must have sliced open your vocal cords because you suddenly find yourself unable to speak. Thats ok, the look on your face is more than enough.
He takes a long drag off the cigarette and begins to speak. "I keep telling myself that back then it was different, you know, before i was in there last time. I keep trying to convince myself that im ok, but LOOK AT ME!" He throws his ashtray across the room, shattering his image in the mirror. "I'm dying again, man. I know, physically, im fine, but im dying inside, you know? ...I think i may already be dead."
"Dont think that way, man. You'll be alright. We'll get you some help."
"NO!" He jumps up from the chair. Thats when you notice the blood. "No, man i dont need help, im fine, ok? im going to be alright. everything's going to be fine." He mutters something under his breath. The only words you can make out are "over soon."
"Chris, why is there blood on the armrest?" you ask. You stand there for a long moment. "Chris!"
"What?" he mutters, trying to act very distracted. You walk up to him and yank the sleeve of his jacket up. Suddenly, anger, fear, shock, and confusion lunge upon you.
"Chris, what did you do?"
"I tried to do something about it." His eyes suddenly glaze and he falls limply to the floor.
***
The next morning, Chris woke up back in the mental hospital that he was released from seven months prior. The bandages on his wrists acrape against the restraints and he cries out. Endlessly. Begging for death at the age of sixteen. And youre left standing, wondering why.
--Bendark How it changed my life:this is my life
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