❝ Be the light. ❞ [Trigger warning.]
What are memories, when all they have become is a pool of tainted blood?
Questions, they were as unanswerable as ever, and as he motioned across the room he had called his own for so many years, it was with traces of tears in his eyes. Hazel hues were red, puffy. Cheeks sore and fingers numb. Lifeless he was, as he seated himself upon the bedside, sheets in perfect order as they always were, everything in it's own place. He had always been neat like that, peculiar about keeping things the way they should be at any time, any place. Though lately things had been scattered, thoughts, items, his entire being. He felt hollow; empty as if everything had been torn away from him, ruthlessly leaving nothing but a shell of a past person and a past life. It was unbearably painful, left his entire body with an ache so strong it consumed him like darkness consumes a person's soul. It burned his skin, swallowed him whole, ate away at him from the inside and out. It colored his features with sadness and hues of hazel with agony. Left him as nothing more than a broken man without a single chance to bring himself back together — pick up the pieces of a since long picked apart puzzle.
A gleam of silver in his hand caught his eye, the sharp edge of a razor's blade digging into the heel of his palm. Red stained his pallor, but he couldn't feel it. Just like he couldn't feel anything else. The breaths escaping his lungs were no longer necessary, nothing was. It was, as if his entire frame had frozen, embedded by ice, along with his heart. The blooming darkness was all he could see, all he could sense. The blooming of sanguine still went unnoticed. The pain went unnoticed. What right had he to feel even the slightest thing? When losing everything he ever held dear, when the day had finally come, he knew. He knew and it hurt so much more than imagined. Bitterly he had spat curses at himself, every thought laced with poisonous self loathing and it had riven him to the edge. Sense lost, thoughts lost. Yixing was lost. Whatever the male was, sitting in the home of the mentioned man, it wasn't Yixing anymore. It couldn't possibly be. Too wretched, too twisted.
Too out of his mind.
It was almost on reflex when the blade was lifted, when held before his eyes. When he stared at the remnants of crimson coloring its edges. And he smiled. Because finally, finally all of this would come to an end. Finally there would be no more pain. No more suffering. The motion was the simplest of all, he had done this so many times before, and as the sleeve of his shirt was pulled up, his arm was littered with proof of his own doings. Lingering gashes,none of them fully healed. He ripped them open whenever the chance was given. He didn't deserve to heal. He didn't. Nimble fingertips brushed over lingering eschars, flinching at how real they felt, how rough they were beneath the pads of his digits; in contrast to smooth skin. Though, it didn't matter anymore. His head shook, fingers curling as he looked away. This, this would be the tricky part. He had to do it quickly, ignore self perseverance together with the pain.
The initial press of a sharp edge against his skin made him whine, wince and wanting to recoil. But he pushed himself. It was the right thing to do. They wanted him to go away. Therefore he would go away. Permanently. As permanently as it could ever become. He pushed the blade deeper, watched the blood stain his skin as it began to run. The moist in his eyes returned, forming small droplets that began to slowly trickle down his cheeks in two steady streams. His hands were shaking, making the cut shaky, another whine slipping past his lips before he dropped the razor to the floor and fell back against the mattress. All that remained was to wait. The incision was a long one, deep as well. Stretching from the vein and at least one decimeter upwards. It was all he had managed, but it was more than enough. He knew. With the anemia he had been diagnosed with, this would go so much more quickly. He was already feeling feeble.
Fingertips fumbled as they pulled the sleeve back down, shirt soaked by flowing blood in less than ten seconds. Thank god it was a black hoodie. His still useable hand sought the comfort of his cellphone, screen unlocked and fingers clumsy as they wrote. His vision was blurred, but he managed to get a proper message together either way, sending it before no longer able to keep the device in a proper hold, dropping it to the floor as eyelids fluttered slowly.
It was getting cold. So very cold.
His eyes closed, he felt tired. Like he needed to sleep. Chill enveloping him like a wet blanket, soaking through his skin and stealing what little warmth he had. the last thing he did, was to shoo Boo and Oliver off of the bed. After that, everything faded to black, went blank and his arm fell back against the soft material of his comforters, white sheets stained with red as he slipped, ever so slowly.
[ ✉; Knight ] I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. Don't come looking for me, you won't find me either way.
Those words he had written, they made him smile once again, the curl etched onto his pale features as darkness as soft as velvet surrounded him, made him feel like he was soaring, somewhere in between heaven and earth. Then all of a sudden he was falling, and it had him terrified. This, was his balance. This was what willpower was for but he had none. He had let go of himself long ago, all that was left was letting go of the keeper of his soul; his body. And so, he did.
What are memories, when all they have become is a pool of tainted blood? The answer is ever so simple, lingering just before your nose. Worthless.
