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I can't do this anymore.
Jacob hid inside the tub in the bathroom. His body shook with each uneaven sob, face wet with tears. Yet, his cries were stifled so as not to reveal his situation to his Father.
All I do is fuck everything up.
His mind wouldn't stop racing. His tears wouldn't stop flowing. All he wanted right now was peace, but that seemed like a far away dream he'd never achieve.
I'm a horrible son. I should've just kept the secrets in the box.
He clenched his fists, digging his fingers into the palm of his hand. Not enough to bleed, but enough to hurt.
I just... I just want to die already...
Then, he remembered the razors he kept in the drawer in the sink. Maybe... he could help himself out. He was already a worthless piece of shit, so why shouldn't he do something to worsen that? It's not like anyone would care.
Not Father, at least.
Jacob sat up and reached into the drawer. It was filled with mostly junk; unused pencils, nail clippers, brushes, and a lot of crumbs. After some shuffling around, he found the blades.
They were brand new. Sharp and shiny. Ready to be weaponized against himself.
I'll just do a few little ones, he thought, and sat down on the cold tile floor.
For a moment, he hesitated, aware of the consequences of his actions. Father would most definitely find out if he went through with it. But he's gone this far, he wasn't about to back down yet.
Besides, he wants to make his Father regret ever putting his hands on him.
Eventually, he made up his mind and set the blade to his forearm. He pressed it gently to his arm, feeling the cold steel dig into his skin.
It's now or never, Jacob.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then he heard a small chhrikk sound as his skin was sliced.
Jacob opened his eye to see a two-centimeter sized cut on his arm. The flesh was white for a moment before the crimson liquid began pooling in.
The adrenaline rush finally caught up to him and it made him a little woozy. He felt sick, but he still had more work to do.
Again and again, the blade sliced his skin and painted his arms red. His movements were erratic and uncoordinated, making some of his wounds uneven and ugly. Blood oozed from the cuts and onto the floor. And soon enough, all Jacob saw in front of him was red.
His arms-- they were absolutely ruined. There was a gash on the underside of one where he could see his fatty tissue. It was gruesome, and all the blood has stained his clothes red.
"I'm so fucking pathetic," Jacob said aloud, and he finally broke down into another fit of sobs. "God, I... I don't wanna live anymore..."
He covered his face with his hands. How did he get to this point? He did all this just because his Father disciplined him? Was this worth the truth he unveiled?
Maybe I should commit suicide at this point. Nobody will care. I'll cut open the vein in my arm.
As a last-ditch effort to end his pain, he rested the bloodied razor against the soft skin on the inside of his elbow. Right above the vein.
Once I'm gone, I won't hurt anymore. I'll be free.
Right?
.
.
.
He couldn't do it.
All he thought about was 'what if I failed and I ended up disabled for the rest of my life?', and 'I don't wanna hurt Lucas' feelings.'
To be honest, he was slightly disappointed in himself for pussying out. Jacob would much rather die than live with Father for another day. Life seems to have its way of saying 'fuck you' in the worst ways.
Typical.
But now, he just wanted to feel nothing. Dead, but also alive. Thoughtless. Careless. Here, but just in his head.
After some time in the bathroom, he thought it'd be appropriate to leave now. He'd been in there for an hour and a half, laying in a pool of his own blood and tears. He left anyway, too tired to clean up the mess, too tired to care about the blood on his clothes.
He staggered into the kitchen and to the medicine cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of hydroxyzine. Twenty-five milligrams per tablet. One was enough to make him drowsy, but this time he planned on overdosing.
Just to escape reality. I don't want to think. I don't want to feel alive.
Jacob spilled a handful of tablets into his hand. He didn't know how deadly these could be, but any form of escape would save him, even for a little while.
He quickly popped the tablets into his mouth and chased it down with water. He may or may not regret this action later.
Maybe I'll die of liver failure. It'll be painful, I think? I don't know, and I almost don't care.
It'll be about an hour before he'll feel the effects. He figured he should nap to pass the time. Maybe he'll die in his sleep.
Eventually, he settled down into his bed. His limbs, most notably his arms, felt sore. Blood stained his sheets, but it didn't phase him.
Jacob stared at the ceiling waiting for sleep to claim him. Before long, he felt his reality slipping away into a dreamless abyss.