Shouting filled Connor’s ears as he entered the place he called home. Throwing his key in the green bowl on the table next to the sofa, he walked cautiously to the kitchen, trying to make sure he made next to no noise. Connor peered around the doorway and leant his skinny frame against the wall. His mother and father were fighting... again. The dim moonlight from the windows lit up his father’s face, which was contorted by rage, though had an element of unknowing about it. Why was his father always drunk these days? Connor was almost certain it was partly something to do with his declining grades at school. He looked down, ashamed.
A particularly loud yell from the larger man made Connor’s dark eyes shoot upwards. Thinking that their fights were his fault, he couldn’t stand to watch as an expensive vase shattered to a million tiny pieces against the orange wall near his mother’s head. This wasn’t the first act of violence she had to endure; truthfully, she had married a horrible man.
Not wanting to see what came next, and knowing he could not stop it, Connor made his way to his room, feeling the need to block out the world. He crossed the lounge and put a foot on the first stair. He paused, hearing a high-pitched though muffled scream from his mother. Tears began building in Connor’s eyes as he trudged up the rest of the stairs, his sweating hand making the banister squeak a little.
Slamming his door behind himself, Connor started to pace. He hadn’t turned his light on, he preferred the dark anyway. His room was the smallest of the house and the dark teal paint of his walls was starting to crack and peel, though he had tried desperately to cover the cracks with large posters of bored-looking punk rock bands. However, now it seemed the bands were staring at him, their faces disapproving and disgusted.
A harsh sob finally escaped from his lips and he flung himself face first onto the creaky single bed in the middle of the dim room. Collecting himself, he sat up slowly and pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, the threatening tears causing his hands to become wet.
Thoughts ran through Connor’s head like trains. One after another, they came, they went. Sometimes these thoughts lingered for a moment before he realised how stupid they were. But no, maybe that one thought, that one little thought wasn’t quite so stupid. If it were to be a reality, Connor knew how he thought everyone would react. His parents wouldn’t really care... would they? No, he didn’t think they would. He could do it, he had to do it.
Connor remembered all the places where he kept sharp objects. But he was past this, wasn’t he? He pulled off his school jumper and began staring at his own arms. Endless little lines that were once bleeding scarred his inner arms, they’d be there forever. Do it one last time, a quiet voice inside his head was saying, cut deep, cut one last time.
He hadn’t cut since he was 13, but Connor remembered the sensation all too well. Reminiscing, he remembered the sensation of cutting his own skin with that knife he kept in a drawer. What people used to say was far from true, self-harm did help the pain.
Walking over to his clothes drawers Connor fumbled around blindly, searching for something at the back. Gasping as the blade cut his finger slightly, he took out what he had been looking for. Connor held up the long knife and admired it in the moonlight. The sharp edge reflected the light back out into the darkness of the night and Connor wanted to give a twisted grin at its beauty. He popped his bleeding finger in his mouth to stop the crimson liquid from coming. The metallic taste of the blood excited Connor; he longed to feel the stinging sensation on a much greater scale on his wrists, to feel the hot fluid escaping his body for one last time before it all ends.
Was he really this disturbed? Could he really do it? Would he do it? Yes, he assured himself, it would be best for everyone if I just died. Connor paced over to the bed and sat down heavily, the knife still in his trembling hands. Not taking his eyes off the shining blade, he brought it to his left wrist. He clenched his fist as the hot blood began to dribble out, forcing more to come.
Sighing, Connor watched the liquid run down his arm, across all those previous scars, and some of it was soaked up by his polo shirt sleeve. He used the bloody knife to go over the wound again, deeper this time and the blood flowed like warm, gooey lava from a volcano.
He grins slightly; his heart and mind have told him he is doing the right thing, letting his petty life end here and now. This was it: he was dying. Realisation hit him hard. He would never be able to tell Bonnie how he felt, how much he cared for her, that she wasn’t just a friend.
Connor remembered the first day he laid eyes on Bonnie. She was so beautiful, her blonde hair bobbed carefree around her shoulders and as she seemed to glide across the floor of the school hall, she stopped suddenly, and saw Connor staring at her. Cocking her head to the side, she had beamed. She had walked closer, cautiously, to Connor.
“Hello,” Bonnie had said, that amazing smile still plastered onto her face. Embarrassment made Connor’s face grow scarlet and he muttered a greeting back. Catching the light, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and sat down next to him. Head in hands, she watched him intently, intrigued by the lone boy no one ever seemed to notice.
“Anything I can help you with?” Connor had asked innocently, still wondering why this magnificent girl was talking to him. Bonnie laughed and it sounded like a thousand drops of rain on xylophones, Connor had never heard such a sweet sound. Baby-blue eyes looked right into his chocolate ones and they twinkled, he caught his breath quickly and smiled back, more confident this time.
For a moment, their laughs mingled and they felt a connection. That connection would last, all that was three years ago, back when they were both twelve.
Connor gave a watery smile as he remembered that day with Bonnie. His blood was now dripping carelessly onto the dark navy of the carpet but he didn’t care: he was going to be dead in a minute anyway. Feeling the life drain out of him, he pulled out his phone, and with shaking hands dialled Bonnie’s number.
Connor got her answering machine.
“Hey, Bonnie, it’s me. Just wanted to say that, well, I love you. You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and the reason that I haven’t told you this before is that I know you don’t feel the same way... and well, I was scared,” Connor paused, trying to pull himself together, “Just thought you ought to know... Bye, Bonnie.” He hung up, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks and silent sobs made his whole body quake. He dropped the phone and lay back on his bed, the thin, lumpy pillow barely supporting his head.
The crimson liquid was everywhere now: all over his duvet, all over the carpet, and all over himself. Connor felt his breathing get lighter everytime he took a breath. This was it. Muffled shouting continued to make its way up the stairs as his eyes fluttered shut and he took his last weak breath, feeling he had saved everyone from himself.