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A nonchalant nick to his skin with a bloodied blade. He watched the thick red globs surface and ooze from the fresh wound with awe in his eyes. Mesmerized as it falls to the ground in a vibrant splatter, slightly tinted with a green hue as light hits the slightly opaque green bottle of alcohol a couple of inches away.
He stares unblinkingly at the mass collection of lacerations on his arm, blood covering his arm. Crimson stains his light gray joggers. The blade hit the floor with a sharp thud when he dropped it in favor of holding the lit cigarette up to his lips, the white body slowly turning red from his bloodied fingers.
Smoke obscures his vision for a second before it dissipates. He smiles, white teeth catching the colors of dawn filtering in from the window. Bottles scattered across the floor, liquid slipping a bit from the mouth of each. Ashes in his clothes and the ground, circular burn marks from put-out cigarettes marring one thigh.
Another cut, another inhale, another exhale, another sip. His hair disheveled, dark circles prominent under dulled eyes. Chapped lips enclosed around a new cancer stick, cheeks hollowing as he welcomes death into his sick lungs. He gulps the poison, feeling its pleasing burn down his throat.
“This’ll be the last time,” he lies to the empty room who bore witness to his self-destruction, eyeing the way he digs his nails into his scalp, looking at his breakdown. If walls could talk, he wonders what they’ll say about him. Would they speak elegies about him? Or would they complain about his behavior?
He takes another drag, another sip, another slit. He’ll stop afterwards, he promises, empty as it was. He vows, “last time, then I’ll get help.” It’s a lie. It always is. It all is. A sigh and he flops down onto the floor, curling in on himself like a fetus, blood staining the floor.
Eyes fall shut.
He does it all over again the next night.
He always does.