Disclaimer - Gore, suicide, intense themes, etc., you know the drill.
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At first, he noticed the wet, warm feeling surrounding him and the sensation of grass lightly tickling his face. The rocks and pavement he had settled on were irritating his skin to redness and some stray granules of gravel found a home in his forearms and legs.
His thoughts were scattered and foggy. The only concept he could understand was to breathe. He took a large breath in and felt his bones shift. The discomfort was great and forefront in his mind.
Next, he noticed the dew of the grass gracing his skin with wet kisses. It was a refreshing feeling, but only until he realized how cold he was.
It was unbearable.
Somehow, his arms stayed faithful to him and propped him up from the earth. He stretched his legs as a test and began rising to his feet. With a not-so-graceful ascent, he was up and moving, albeit with a stiff, shambling gait.
He blinked his eyes a couple times, facing the building in front of him. Oh, a house, that's what it is. Slowly, he was realizing things around him again. Back to normal, he thought. But what was normal? He knew he needed to get inside to fight the numbing frost clinging to his bones. Stumbling a little less now, he made his way to the front door of the house.
He reached out towards the key he knew was hidden within a wind chime hanging above and to the side of the doorway. Yes! He was glad to have remembered that. Inserting the key, he softly cracked open the door with a turn and peeked inside. He knew this was his house, and somehow, he instinctively knew to stay silent. He tiptoed his way upstairs and went straight for his room, but not before passing by another room. This one had a door that was left ajar. He decided to peek inside, and he instantly recognized the room to be his brother's and concluded that the mass sprawled across the futon in the center of the room was his brother.
Turning back, he went inside his own room and soundlessly opened his door. He did it. Back inside the warm home at last. He grabbed a soft white blanket from off the floor and sat down on the bed.
Slowly and surely, he was coming back into himself. As he was warming himself on the floor, he noticed a sticky material between his digits. He rubbed the substance between his forefinger and thumb, and it gathered into a small gelatinous glob in response. Looking around, he noticed and felt that the foreign slime was practically all over him. He sniffed it, metallic. He decided to taste it against his better judgement, that was metallic as well. It had a repulsive texture, taste and feeling to it.
He realized – this must be blood.
Yet, he didn't feel hurt. How could this be? He had to be sure. He poked at his body where he felt and saw blood, nothing. He did feel a soreness and a tingling sensation on the back of his head; however, it wasn't pain. Pain was serious, pain was something that alerted you to having blood spilling out. He clearly wasn't bleeding. Was this even his blood?
He stood up onto his feet, still holding the blanket around him, and made a noiseless journey to the bathroom. Upon closing the door, he felt his hand against the wall for the presence of a light switch. Once he found it, he quickly flicked it on.
Flinching, his eyes had to adjust to the sudden brightness, which he regretted opening his eyes to. After a moment he was soon facing himself.
With wide eyes he stared back at himself in stunned silence. It looked as if he had crawled out of a horror movie. For a second, he doubted that what he was seeing was real, but it surely wasn't fake.
Letting the blanket drop to the floor, he began to examine his body. He realized there was more under his clothes, so he went to remove the rest of his apparel. There were no wounds on his torso, arms, neck, legs... It was very strange. He turned to get a look of his back and saw a huge, dried patch of blood. There was what appeared to be a source for a wound, but no wound was there. He touched it and flinched instinctively, yet no pain came.
Was it only blood?
He decided to wash himself off, having resolved that this blood wasn't his. Also, he didn't want to leave a blood trail on him. He stepped into the shower and rinsed off as quickly as he could. From what he saw, he thought that all the blood he was washing off could be used for a gore movie because of the seemingly endless stream of watery blood that washed off his body.
After a while he finally cleaned himself entirely of the blood; he even rinsed the dried blood in his hair which was thickly coating the back of his scalp in clumps. He stared back at himself in the mirror, a subtle expression of bewilderment looking back at him.
It was then it all came back to him. What he'd done.
This must be the afterlife, he assumed, 'I feel no pain, yet that drop… I can't be alive, can I?'
He shifted his gaze over to his bloodied clothing and dug into his pockets to find the note. It was stained now, but it was the same note as before.
He pinched and pulled his skin taught. Yep, he was awake for sure. Yet how did he have no marks on him at all? As he leaned with his hands on the counter, he stared back at himself in the mirror for a few moments and bowed his head.
In a flash the boy dove for the cabinet under the sink and vigorously searched through the clutter. With rabid determination in his eyes, he held out a thin, curved object. Using adroit movements, he pried open the flat, oblong fixture at the end of the object he was holding and pulled out a thin, flat shape no bigger than a finger. It shone back the sickly incandescent light affixed to the ceiling. In a moment he brought himself into the tub and sat down.
Laying an arm parallel to the ground, he brought down his other hand, gripped tightly to some unseen tool, with such force and velocity his arm blended into the drab tile of the walls.
Once the gripped hand had met its destination, it pulled back emphatically onto morganite skin, leaving the irritated flesh around it to turn a slight pink. Bright red meat exposed itself to the harsh artificial lighting that manifested as a cruel, honest spotlight. Hot liquid gore spilled over the walls of flesh along either side of his forearm.
A burning, searing sensation melted through his nerves and overwhelmed his brain as his face grimaced and twisted inwards. In response, his hand lost its hold over the small metal object, where it subsequently fell on the floor of the bathtub, splattering miniscule trails of blood as it clamored on the acrylic. The pitiful youth's body lurched forward as if fighting an internal force. Through clenched teeth he tried his will against the burning desire to moan out in agony. The immense grip of the child's untouched arm held onto his marred forelimb as if to prevent the damage from spreading.
During the chaos, he gradually came to an awareness of warm and delicate tears caressing his face, bringing him back into the moment. Looking down at the injury, he realized the pain had subsided to a considerable degree. The brutally mutilated area of his arm appeared to be reducing in size.
A moment later, he witnessed his own flesh mold itself back together. It was as though the hands of God had reached down and sealed his broken hide. In another second, the damages were diminished to the proportion of a pencil, a finger, then a papercut, and finally, a featureless plane.