Author's Note: So I'm not completely comfortable writing this, but I'm going to try and give the readers a peek into the darkest corner of my mind.495Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEk7MslmI6k
495Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy5ME4JjyiI
There's a small room, where the boy rocks. All I can do is watch as he rocks back and forwards, tears streaming down his face, cursing his life, his pain, and waiting anything for both to end.495Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmG2V1i8yZA
I watch him reach for the knife, press it to pale skin, skin marked with so many scars. I try to stop him, but I'm frozen, watching as he rolls up his sleeves, presses the silver blade to his skin, and applies pressure, drawing the blade along his arm, watching as crimson blood spills from the cut. He's breathing too hard to make the cut even shaking too much. His tears mix with the red liquid as he adds another cut than another, trying to escape the memory, to erase the feel of his father's skin from his, to forget the things he had said.
The cuts grow deeper, more frantic as his panic and fear grew stronger. He cried out in pain, dropping the blade, feeling weak. He picked it up again, as I screamed, begging, pleading with him to stop.
But it was no good, he drove the knife into his chest, and at that time a burning pain shot through me, as I screamed, for that little boy, he was me.
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