• And all went silent, silent like the darkness of the room in which the boy sits alone. Himself and a razor, the soft sound of blood dripping upon the tiles is the only sound for miles. As he continued to mutilate his pale flesh with the sharpened edge, he cried. Small tears leaked into his blood on the floor, the mixture becoming a blackened fluid. The solemn crystals fell slowly down the boy's soft cheeks, the rose color becoming one with the stream's leftover trail. He smiles to himself, the pain becoming a pleasure to him as his addiction grows to the edge of the blade. The addiction became like a heroin or cocaine addiction as he shuddered. The glinting and menacing smile of the blade taunting him. It screamed to the boy, "Use me. Feel me. Know me!"
    As the boy's wrists became more and more scarred with the marks of anguish, sorrow, and his inner death, he became colder, harder, more of a withdrawn one. The darkness he woar upon himself symbolized his relentless rage at the natural world's orders. He didn't cry when his skin was opened to reveal the crimson laughter. The laughter flowed through the gashes each time, he needed more. More pain to keep himself occupied. More to fill his pleasure. Like a whore for money, he found new ways to intensify the feeling of utter pain. He used things like salt in the open wounds. He still did not cry. Instead, he laughed whenever he witnessed the flow of blood. Laughed at other people's pain, anguish, and sorrow. Laughed at broken bones and bruises. He found nothing in his frail life but pain. If only the boy had been loved earlier. Sooner. If he hadn't been discarded by his parents, if only he hadn't been used as a punchline for every joke that taunted and haunted him to the very day. The very day that he found his one true goal. He pulled that trigger tonight. The bullet's cold and welcome metal had ripped through his skull and his gray matter without any sign of mercy for him.