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Drip. Drip. Drip.
What little light there was in the room reflected off the red pooling in the saturated carpet. It could take no more in that spot, so the viscous liquid began spilling out into whatever fibers it could find, painting the floor with a dark crimson. The drips were silenced by the softness of the ground it fell on, giving no hint as to what was happening behind the locked doors of Stan's bedroom.
His arms were warm. Warmer than they should have been, and stained with every slash going in every direction. Shards of glass surrounded him, one firmly in his grasp and cutting into his palm as he struggled to hold onto it. The delirium was only worsened by the thick scent of blood and booze filling his lungs. He could taste it in the back of his throat and it lingered there. It stuck to his taste buds like glue and wouldn't come off no matter how much he swallowed.
It had never gone this far. It was worse than he could usually stomach. He was surprised he was even able to think under these conditions. Yet, he was. He wished he wasn't. The thinking only made the cuts run deeper. Each memory flowed from his arm every time the dirty shard made contact with his fragile body. He'd used the same, unwashed piece of glass over and over again. There was no doubt the wounds would be infected, but what did that matter anymore? His concerns were no longer about his own physical form.
His body wasn't part of him anymore. He was in control - at least he thought he was - but he wasn't his body. He was observing it from somewhere else, staring into his own tear soaked face with his cheek pressed against his wardrobe. He didn't recognize it; he couldn't recognize himself. Not in this state. The pathetic boy curled into himself with his side against a wall to keep himself from finally fading out of consciousness. Part of him was desperate to see it through to the end.
The space was a wreck. Stan had never been tidy, but this was something else. Before, it was organized chaos. The worst it has been was when he hadn't picked up his clothes for a month. Now, with his carpet bearing stains that would never fade completely, he knew he was at his very lowest. It didn't get any harder from here. That thought brought brief solace to his mind. It was, in a twisted way, comforting to know he had finally reached rock bottom.
There was a shuffling outside of his door. The small line of light disappeared into shadow as someone made their way across the house. They wouldn't disturb him. They wouldn't find him, not yet. He would have plenty of time to clean up and move on before anyone realized he hadn't been out of his room in a while.
Cleaning up. He didn't want to clean up. There was no point. The carpet was ruined with no way to fix it. They would find out eventually. He wasn't ready for that talk. They would try to fix him. He didn't want to be fixed. He couldn't be fixed.
The light came back as his mom vanished into the safety of her own room. What would his mom think of this? Her sweet baby making art of his skin? A wave of loneliness hit him and he shuddered, despite the warmth spreading through him. He wanted to feel her embrace once more the way she used to hold him as a kid. He wanted his mom. Without thinking, he pressed the glass deeper, his breath catching in his throat. She would hate him. She would hate him for what he had become. Deeper, deeper still.
He didn't quite know why he was doing it. Maybe he thought it was the only good thing he could do. He made his family's life worse; his dad always told him that. His mom was going gray with stress because of him. His friends had to suffer whenever he opened up. It would be easier if he weren't in their lives to cause them anymore pain.
Growing up was one of the things that scared him the most. He hated change. All his life, he wanted to stay with the same few people and never grow old. For years, that's how it was. In his mind, he was eternally 10 years old, getting into all sorts of scrapes with his best friends. He was wrapped up in his poofball hat and mittens, cozy and warm and playing in the snow. It had been a simpler time then. He had no problems in life larger than homework or a spat between him and Kyle that always ended with the two of them closer than ever. When all he had to do to make friends was play make-believe and fight imaginary monsters.
Then he grew up. He became a teenager, and popularity was a contest. Friendships were to be won, not made, and people changed. They changed and moved on, getting jobs, planning for their futures, while Stan was left in the dust. He was still that kid, even now. The one left behind to remain a child for the rest of his life until his oldest friends eventually realized he was below them and moved on too. It was coming soon. It had to be.
He couldn't hold down a relationship either. He was on-again-off-again with Wendy so frequently, it would be simpler if she never had to make that choice with him in the future. She wouldn't be held back by his inability to communicate or give back everything he took. His fling with Kyle, too, had left its own set of wounds. Right person wrong time, he figured. Perhaps even wrong person wrong time. He couldn't give Kyle what he wanted. He didn't even know what he, himself, wanted. That was no way to treat someone. He was selfish in his relationships. He would fall in love when he knew he couldn't handle the responsibilities, and then he'd mess it up and leave everyone worse for it. He wasn't sure what love even felt like.
This was his last act. A selfless one to apologize and make up for everything he took and never returned in his relationships and friendships. In a way, his need for atonement was selfish in itself.
Deeper again.
He winced, but the pain was slowly subsiding. Instead, he felt himself grow lighter. The world was spinning and twisting in a grand cacophony of colors and shapes. This wasn't any dizziness he was used to. It was like he was flying. His body was floating as his eyes drooped. Behind his eyelids, the colors continued to cloud his mind. He couldn't remember what he was thinking about, he just wanted his feelings of elation to last forever.
He laughed. For the first time in forever, he laughed. It bubbled in his throat and came out in short bursts. His clothes, damp with sweat, stuck to his skin. He wanted to peel himself apart to make it stop, but he couldn't stop himself from slumping over in fits of giggles. All those worries and fears were so far below him as he floated and drifted through the stars in his peripheral vision. A splash of blood on his face sizzled and melted off, turning a vibrant ruby.
His laughs turned quickly to coughs. It hurt. He coughed and it scratched and clawed at his throat. More poured down his face, and it took him a long time to acknowledge he had been weeping. The joy had been sorrow, distorted into something unintelligible. Salty tears fell against his lips. The taste of iron blended with it, creating a mix of flavors he had never wanted to explore before. Still, he swallowed it down as the nausea built up.
Thick saliva coated the inside of his mouth, giving him a short-lived warning before the bile from his stomach traveled up and out. The third smell entered the mix, prompting him to retch more. He couldn't take any more. He was self-destructing from the inside out. His white shirt was drenched with blood, sweat, tears, and vomit.
It had to end.
The desperation was growing exponentially as a bout of consciousness went through him. Everything was loud. Too loud. The silence was like sandpaper. It grated at him. The stinging in his arms was unbearable. He needed it to stop. He just wanted it all to stop. His senses were bombarded with everything he had tried so hard to shut out. He could do nothing, not even scream. He had only the strength to open his eyes a crack. He was a mess, something he couldn't stand to see for a second longer.
There was only one way to shut off his senses. With trembling hands, he brought the glass to his throat. He was shaking, leaving smaller grazes across this neck as his hand traveled upwards. He heaved out breaths with no more tears left to cry. His mouth has dried up. His body had prepared itself for the finality of it all. There would be no more cleaning up to do. He felt guilty leaving that to his parents, but there was no other way out.
His eyes clouded over. His vision was mostly gone - not that he had the power to open his eyes anymore.
The jagged shard scraped across his neck. It hurt too. Everything hurt. Those memories he had lost were hurting too. He couldn't remember what he was upset over anymore. His childhood wasn't his. That little boy wasn't him. He couldn't see him. He didn't know what he looked like. Everything that had happened to him to lead him to this moment was gone. He couldn't remember anything. He just knew he was grown now. It used to be easy, but now he was growing up, leaving it all behind. There was no point if he couldn't remember those experiences that made him who he was.
He could suddenly feel the veins and arteries inside him. They beat with intensity as his heart pounded against his chest. It helped him find where they were, and he pressed the glass against the biggest one he could locate.
What was his name again?