beautiful suicide. (short story)

Moonlight shines through the bedroom window as Michael sits there numb, staring into the dark corner of his room. He wishes that he could cry, scream, yell, smile SOMETHING other than sitting there alive yet unable to do much more than breathe and go through meaningless motions in his life. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to the dresser, thinking half drunk to himself, "What do we do NOW my old friend?" He huffs in a weak imitation of a chuckle as the tortured ghost of a smile dances across his lips as he slowly shuffles over to the dresser and grabs the razorblade off the top, caressing the edges like it was his friend, his lover. Silently moving to the dark corner by the doorway he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and stabs the edge of the blade into his skin, cutting deep, curving lines into his flesh. "FUcK yoU" it reads. He turns to the wall slamming his hand onto it, staining it red with his blood, his signature and his last words. He leans into the corner, under the bloodstained wall and slides the blade across his throat, cutting deep and choking on the metal as it passes through his body. He hears hurried footsteps outside his door, probably his parents running down the hall to scream at him for making the noise. "Let them find me... They'll finally have to listen to me... they'll finally understand what I've been saying..." He gargles on the blood and chokes once more, then he fades into the beautiful serenity he'd been chasing for years.