It was too late this time. No one would help him. (Self-harm and suicide)
I've no idea if anyone will read this, but here goes...
It was too late this time. No one would help him. The raven haired boy dragged the shining object across his skin once again, allowing more crimson to flow. Each line he drew was deeper than the last, stung more than the last, bled longer than the last. But it wasn't enough. He tried again, again, again until he felt lightheaded. He glanced down at his bleeding thighs, shocked at he amount of blood he could see. He'd never caused so much damage before. And yet he craved more. Every cell of his bleeding body screamed for the touch of the metal blade, willing the skin to part and the blood fall and - fuck. What had he done? What had he done?! His mind told him to move, to repair his skin, to get up and call some one - to get help. But yet, he could not. He tried to scream out, but his hoarse voice was barely a whisper. His strength left him, and all he had the will to do was make another cut. Of course, in his inebriated state, he took the blade and pushed it deep - so fucking deep - into his left arm, spilling more blood, which caused him to gasp. The scarlet ran freely across pale white, a vision of pain and desperation. He choked slightly, and tears fell down his cheeks. His muddled throughts matched his blurred vision - he could no longer tell anything apart. Intoxicated now, the world began to spin, and yet, it slowed in such a way that he could not grasp. The world began to lose all remaining colour and finally, finally the peaceful darkness smothered him.