Freedom.
She stared at her wrists.
Her scars were clear, staring right back at her.
But this one... This one was different.
It was bleeding and bleeding and it wouldn’t stop.
It was an artery.
A mistake.
She was dying.
She watched the magenta pool spread across her white floor tiles and laughed with dry tear streaks framing her beautiful face.
She started at the moon and smiled.
She managed to write one word before she faded completely.
Freedom.
Her brother was the first one in her room.
The image scarred him for life.
Her blood, once fresh and bright, now a dull hue... Was everywhere.
She looked so happy, so calm, so at peace.
He wanted to be happy too.
His parents came in, screamed, a funeral was arranged.
He watched with little interest as people who didn’t care walked in and out, apologising over a girl they didn’t know.
His mind flashed back to the blood.
It was beautiful, so beautiful... But it wasn’t bright.
He wanted to see it bright.
So he cut his own wrists.
He cut his own thighs.
He grew up and killed strangers, just to see their blood.
He searched and he searched... But it was never the right shade.
It never matched his sister’s.
Finally, one night, he was cornered by the police.
His only companion, a dog lay at his feet.
It had been with him for years, ever loyal, ever supportive.
It reminded him so much of his older sister... His beautiful, broken, dead big sister.
He took his knife and sliced its throat, ignoring the weak yelp it let out.
He watched the red liquid seeping out from the severed neck of his only friend and smiled.
Finally, he found the match.
No more pain, no more deaths, he didn’t have to be alive anymore.
He had paid his debts for not being able to save her.
He could finally put his sick, twisted mind down like the hound he had just killed.
He held a gun to his head and grinned before pulling the trigger.
His blood splattered on his dog, on his knives and razors and his body was found, slumped, on the floor.
He was dead.
It was all over.
He was finally free.