The crisp autumn air chills his cheeks. His breath forms small clouds visible in the moonlight. In the distance a dog barks, a siren sounds, cars drive into the night. He stands outside the small, dark house, deciding whether it is worth it to go inside or not. Would facing what awaits behind the door make him seem brave or just foolish? The scent of alcohol still remains on his breath, on his clothes, in his hair. It was no longer the alcohol that now clouds his vision, it was now the tears that he tried trying to hold back. He turned the doorknob, but pulled his hand away. Standing on the front porch of his suburban home he turns to walk away; where he is going he doesn’t know. !?
Movement is heard from inside the house. Inaudible words are passed among the persons within the dwelling. The door slowly opens. He turns around. The figure in the doorway stares at him, narrow eyed, mouth partially open. Their eyes meet. For a few moments nothing is said. They both stare back at each other. It becomes too much for him. He releases his hold on the floodgates in his tear ducts. Large, fat tears wet his cheeks, drip down his face, down his chin, onto his shirt. The figure in the doorway does nothing.

“Why are you bleeding?” this figure finally asks.

“Wh..what?” He says through deep breaths and looking down at his wrists.

Dark crimson seeped from his wrists and from cuts on his hands, gently tickling his skin, and dripped on the stone porch. His palms stung, his wrists stung, and until now he hadn’t noticed. The chilled air had cooled his skin. He touched his right wrist with his left index finger, the blood felt cool on his bare skin. He didn’t reject the pain. He didn’t wince. He didn’t groan. He didn’t shutter. He welcomed it like an old friend. For the longest time, this pain was the only thing that made him feel; feel human, or feel anything.

Pain had always been his friend. He grew up in a devout Christian home with his father as the head of the household and the head of the small church they went to. Until now he kept his pain strictly emotional. Growing up, he kept his mouth shut, kept his grades up, and kept his nose clean, all in silent fear of retribution from his father. As holy as his father liked to seem, he was never afraid to “lay hands” if he thought need be. “Need be” mostly involved a B on an assignment or a chore left undone. A hard fist to the abdomen or a cold slap across the face were his favorite forms of moral cleansing. The boy grew up knowing what pain looked like and how it felt and as much as he tried to avoid pain, it always came back.?
From an early age he was never like the other children in his class. He kept his mouth shut, eyes forwards, back straight, and stayed silent. He wasn’t boisterous, he never stirred up trouble, he sat silent in the middle row of his classroom. He never played during recess, he didn’t like being around the other children. Because of this he was required to visit the school counselor once a week. Once turned into twice, twice turned into three times, and three times turned into every day before and after school. For his entire middle school career he spent most of it in the guidance counselor’s office, silent.?
In his first year of high school he felt himself improving. Although he now went to a full-time therapist twice a week, the sessions were no longer met with total silence, sometime he even felt himself getting better. At school his grades were in a good place,
honor roll was an easily attainable goal for him every quarter, he acquired a small group of friends whom he mostly enjoyed, and he busied himself with a myriad of extracurriculars and after school activities. To those who knew him, his future looked promising. But, one aspect of his life that never seemed to improve were his father’s outbursts, both verbal and physical. Like lightning, they came hard and fast. His back and sides were decorated with a rainbow of bruises of every shape, size, and color, all there to remind him of how hollow he felt. As hollow as he did feel, until this night, he vowed to never let it show. He would never to allow his emptiness to spread to those around him, infect them as it had him. He wore an artificial smile and learned how to briefly suppress his sadness.

As he grew older, the control that he once had over his mind and body started to fade. He no longer found the strength to conceal the feelings of hollowness, self doubt, and disappointment. Because of this, he was prone to violent panic attacks and constant fits of tearful hysterics. The pressures and expectations of upperclassmanship grew to be too much for him and gradually caused him to break. His group of friends deserted him, worried that whatever the emotional disease he carried would contaminate their perfect lives as well. He was alone. Now Loneliness accompanied Pain and Hollowness and the three overshadowed him.

He lived his days floating in a drug-induced fog of antidepressants. Small, brightly colored pills slithered their way down his throat twice a day and began to slowly suck what life that that was left out of his frail body. The pain that he felt began to grow, past his body and past his mind. He felt the unending pain in the very depth of his soul. What had once been a bout of sadness had now evolved into something else, something horrid. This pain, this hurt, this ache that he felt within was quickly destroying what was left of him.?
He recalled back to the first time that he felt this darkness begin to take over. He thought back to the first time that he felt hollow. He thought of the first time that this sadness caused him to feel this way. Upon thinking on these things he came to a startling conclusion. He had always felt this way. This unholy trinity that now encapsulated his life had not just suddenly appeared, it had always been. It had always been with him, lurking, sneaking, waiting, learning him. It had never left him. As the years passed ha had just grown to accept its existence. Their was never a time that he could remember where this hollowness, this ache was not there. It was a part of him, it had always been. He had always accepted it with a sense of affability. never questioning its presence in his life, his mind, or his body. It was his friend. It leaned on him, took life from him and left him a hollow vessel. These thoughts circulated in within him.?
On this night he prepared to accept his inevitable, he was prepared to silently slip away. Why should anyone miss him? His fathers would have one less problem too worry. his classmates would no longer have to see him in this state, he had no friend to think about. It all seemed so easy; too easy. On this night he searched for answers. He had no one to tell him no. He would not be missed. But, thee was something keeping the razor blade in his pocket from connecting with the vein in his neck. On this cold autumn night he walked the dark streets of his suburban neighborhood. HIs loneliness grew as the seconds, minutes, hours passed. Although his self-control was weakened by the dark whiskey, he still found reason to withhold the small, silver blade from ending his life.

His breath made small clouds visible in the moonlight. In the distance a dog barks, a siren sounds, cars drive into the night. He vision was clouded as the whiskey began to set in. He was drunk. He didn’t remember lifting the razor blade from his pocket. He didn’t remember making small cuts to his left arm. He didn’t remember switching hands to to the same to his right arm. He didn’t remember making more cuts on his hands. He didn’t feel the pain; he didn’t feel anything. Blood droplets hit the pavement as he walked. A trail of dark crimson teardrops followed him. He stumbled back to the house of his childhood. The four walls that had cradled him in the deepest feelings of sadness and worthlessness. He ascended the three stone steps that led onto the stone porch. He stands outside the small, dark house, deciding whether it is worth it to go inside or not. Would facing what awaits behind the door make him seem brave or just foolish? The scent of alcohol still remains on his breath, on his clothes, in his hair.

After of moments of reasoning, he decides to leave. Where he is going, he does not know. As he turns to leave the door slowly opens. The figure in the doorway stares back at him. It does not blink, it does nothing.

 “Why are you bleeding?” the figure finally asks.

 “Wh...what?” he says through deep breaths looking down at his wrists.

Dark crimson seeped from his wrists and from cuts on his hands, gently tickling his skin, and dripped on the stone porch. His palms stung, his wrists stung, and until now he hadn’t noticed. The chilled air had cooled his skin. He looked back at the figure. He wanted the figure to tell him that he was loved, to tell him that he was needed, to tell him that he was wanted. It didn’t. The figure looked back at him and then slowly closed the door. “Don’t come back.” he said.
At this moment he could no longer cry, he could no longer think, he could no longer live. He collapsed on the stone porch of the suburban house. Dead.?