He knew each cut brought him closer to his inevitable demise. As he looked down, he could see the blood trickle from his open wounds. He didn't care. He was tired of hiding, tired of becoming the one thing that he refused to ever become, his father. His father couldn't even hold on to a real job, he just sat at home all day playing on his computer, going nowhere. But, the more he sat there, the more he realized how much like his father he was becoming. He couldn't stand the thought. In all actually, he would rather die than become even close to this lazy bastard. They had never seen eye to eye. One was a devote [scoff] christian. The other listened to Marilyn Manson, dressed all in black and refused to even come close to the very idea of organized religion. It sickened him how many people could be tricked into thinking that there was someone up there, watching your every move. Like a stalker. Also, he was bisexual. This was one thing that his father could not, and would never be able to accept. His father called homosexuality "a disease, or a chemical imbalance," if you fed someone some type of wonder drug, they could be cured of their feelings. That's why he never told anyone about his sexuality until, it just kind of slipped out one day. His father was furious. He said that he was going to send him to a therapist. He would NOT go to see a therapist. There was nothing wrong with him, it was the rest of the world that had been led to fear people like him. It wasn't enough that this might make him truely happy, perhaps actually fall in love with someone...oh no, it had to be a hell worthy trespass now. He had had enough. The razor slid easily through his flesh. And then again, and again. Suddenly, without realizing, or even feeling it, half of his forearm was covered in a bloody mess, just dripping there. He watched the blood as it oozed out and began to cover his bed sheets. No one could save him now, noone cared. He was slipping into the pit of death. It was so much easier than he had expected it to be to just let go. He could feel himself sinking into the bed. Nothing mattered anymore, he was finally going to be freed from this cruel and heartless world. No one would miss him, he was just one less shadow in the expance of time. Every day he cursed himself, and wished that he had never been born. Sure, a few people might cry, maybe go to his funeral, but noone would ever think of the pain and suffering he had to endure throughout his short life. He was trapped. No other way.

... "I saw that [he] was a genious of suffering and that in the meaning of many sayings of Nietzsche he had created within himself with positive genious a boundless and frightening capacity for pain. I saw at the same time that the root of his pessimism was not world-contempt but self-contempt; for however mercilessly he might annihilate institutions and persons in his talk he never spared himself. It was always at himself first and foremost that he aimed the shaft, himself first and foremost whom he hated and despised."

The End

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