Bloodstains

He wanders through the barren halls of his home, running his hands through his blonde hair. Yet again, all alone. The cold walls surround him, his voice echoes deeply. It no longer surprises him, but now he is afraid. He fears being alone with himself.

Only boy,

lonely boy...

He tries to occupy himself with past glories, old loves, and everything that was truly his. He clutches old photos tightly in his too-pale hands until they leave red lines on his skin. There were so many undone things. Things that he wanted to do, to see, to hear. Things he needed to say. But everything drifts back to now, and he flings the pictures away from him, so the figures can't see him crying.

Past, present, and future all tangled up in you,

so hurt and alone with nothing you can do...

He pounds his fist on the table, cursing the ones who now use him for their own dirty work. He curses himself for loving anyone. They are all tools for his own destruction, to be used against him, should he balk and run. They have no value as living beings, only as hostages to ensure that he does what he is told. He rises, silver tears streaming down his chalk-white face, and heads toward a chest of drawers.

When all of your youthful cheer has turned to lead,

when all of your honest lovers are truly dead...

He was a coward, they'd said. He was weak. He should have done what was required, but he had faltered. His hands had been shaking like leaves on a storm-battered branch, and his eyes had started to fill with tears. And he had watched, as another had taken his place. He was abandoned now, left to fall apart. And fall apart he wouldn't. If anything was to happen, he would be strong. No longer would he be their puppet. He was taking his life into his own hands.

When all of your choices and paths fade to dust,

when all of your friendships and promises start to rust...

He found the blade, hard and cold. He sat on the edge of his bed, and drew it across his wrists, as he'd done so many times before, just like this. He turned his wrists over and watched as the blood hit the polished wood floor. It puddled and rippled, spread and twisted. He sat and stared until his eyes started to close. He wondered who would find him this time.

When everything we swore to each other seems to wear thin,

when you're not sure where they end and you begin...

The knife slipped gently from his hands to the bed, not making a sound. He slid until he was sitting sprawled on the floor, his back against the bed. His own life was leaving him; covering his clothes and his arms, the floor and the bed. The knife lay glittering under the fading light of day. He leaned his head back against the bed and waited for the blessed darkness to envelop him. His eyes now closed, he can vaguely hear footsteps coming down the hall. They stopped, and then grew louder and faster. He heard a soft intake of breath as the person got to the door. A male voice called his name softly.

Just call for me like you sometimes do,

and I will be there to reach out to you...

His eyes opened as fast as was possible. The voice still made his heart beat faster. He found himself unable to move or respond. He tried to raise himself up, but he only managed to slide further towards the floor. The other boy came around to where he was sprawled, a look of horror and fear flashed briefly across his face. Together they managed to get to a bathroom, where the other boy found bandages. He bandaged the blonde boy's wrists, and sat beside him on the cool tiles. He brushed his hand lovingly through the golden hair, while the blonde boy reached towards him and took off his glasses. They smiled at each other.

"Why are you here?" asked the blonde boy, quietly.

The other boy smiled.

"I told you I'd never leave you. And I meant it."