Death stood laconically in the corner by the fancy computer and fancy clothes, waiting. He ignored the expensive toys that parents sent to distract the teen curled on the other side of the room: they would never make the boy happy. The only thing that boy really needed was company of the mortals, their gifts of love to stop the stabbing in his heart.
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For one moment, the boy pulled the knife away, raising it above his head to throw it across the room, and Death himself took pause at the sudden strength.
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But just as suddenly, the boy was overwhelmed with his emotion, so powerful that Death's bane breath faltered. Here, all alone in the big house, all alone in the big school, seemingly alone in the whole world, there was only the choice of pain. Knife's edge, or life's drudge: and just then, both seemed the same.
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The boy brought his hand back down, and pressed the knife to his wrist again. He could not see a reason to live, an act of love to stop him, a person to even speak his name: Death's wait was over.
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The bleeding was slow, far more pain and less glory than anyone had ever told him, but in the end, he got his wish. Death stood over him, holding out one thin, skeletal, hand, and said, "Hello there, David. I've been waiting for you."
ns 18.68.41.141da2
