He begins to tremble and shake with a violent twist but with a seemingly steady left hand, while attempting to cut quickly and with as little of pain as possible. His wrists still not ready for the contact of the razor sharp edge of razorblade. As his wrists prepare, but prepare too late, the flesh peels open, exposing the ravishing live pink flesh underneath. The blood now a bold red, in color laughs as it seeps into the surrounding skin and spills over his wound and over his now numbing arm, dripping to the floor tiles. The blood crawls like a snake through the cracks in the floor tiles.
A flashback of his past few weeks come back to him and hit him hard. He doesn't want to recall every heart aching moment he had brought himself to suffer through, but it insists on repeating and seeping through the back of his young and ruthless mind.
When a young woman with beauty and visible enthusiasm chooses to become friends with this young man. One that is extremely unfathomable, that persists on assuring himself that he is entirely crazy and that the people surrounding him bring him to feeling this way. Feelings begin to attract whether they are opposites or the same in character.
Countless savage thoughts inhabit the young man's mind, but a neither one of them cowards, in person, will stop to care the slightest about the young man's deceitful and vicious chosen actions and how to prevent them. (As if they were scared of humanity and humanities desire to make the choice of singling out one another for their differences rather than what they have too much in common.) Such as a life that can be treasured and pleasurable but only with just the right bits and pieces put together. The singling out of differences is still existent and with great emotional power, and as it seems it will always be that way in the absent minds of human beings.
He can stop to wonder for a single moment if he is really insane or just good as dead. He can tell himself if this is really a cruel world or not. Maybe in another's eyes one can see that. With no concept of the pain of tackling the art of killing loneliness, he'd just give up his own life, for love and in his eyes looking through the mirror he can see himself as a definite useless and pitiful waste of earthly matter. He's paying the price of love, and a faked friendship out of pure pleasure and most of all the falling in love with a stranger.
Together the suicide of love and sincere apologies don't make up for the abnormalities of life and it's impurities in love. With warmth and pleasure, killing loneliness seems unwilling to cooperate and exasperates its haste for love nor lust. Therefore true love is the only way to survive the loneliness existing inside of the heart of a young man.
