A sob seized me with frightening power. The remnants of my life were in shambles. I had no reason anymore, no drive to live. The clock teased me, ticking away seconds of my life grimly, reminding me that soon death would claim me too, but that time could never die. Smug bastard. I grabbed the clock off the wall, broke it over my knee, and bawled. The clock's face was in translucent shards around me. I gripped one in my fist, delighted by its venomous bite. I put my head back, morbidity dancing through my thoughts.
He was dead. He'd been my world since I was fourteen. My solace after a long day of school bullying, a long day of my step-dad's bottle against my skin, a long day of the general shit that comes with a day of being that weird, gay, foreign kid.
He'd given me something to make me high. Crystal, making me face each day with a solid glare and a declaration that it was my bitch. But I'd quit that. Had to. Can't have too many holes in that itty-bitty brain of mine. Already dumb enough, don't need to be emotionally detached on top of that.
Though, at the moment, I would have killed to be emotionless. To be floating in a world of black for eternity, swallowed up by numbness and blindness. No more gnaw for crystal smoke in my lungs, no more lust for those who I once loved, no more bite of staccato words, no more sting of my step-dad's disappointment on my back. Just sweet nothingness.
I stared at the glass in my hand. Considered my possibility of survival. Even if I didn't relapse, fry my brain and die in an alley, step-papi would probably get rid of me in the next three, four months. Before I turned seventeen, no doubt. Didn't give me much time left in this orgy of pain and strife. So what the hell? Why not end it before my step-dad got the pleasure of doing it himself? It's not like I had any kind of future outside of drug dens or collecting crinkled ones on whatever stage would allow me to shake my junk for cash.
A hopeless existence, the only bright point would be a brief career at Mickey-D's, where I'm sure I'd give a griping costumer a grease burn to shut them the hell up. And then not only would I not live the glamour life of cleaning floors and flipping maybe-meat patties, but I would probably end up in jail.
So why not? What's stopping me from slitting my wrists and staring at a wall until my vision faded? Not like anybody would miss me. Not like people hadn't told me to do it before.
I lifted the shard in my palm, pressed it to my wrist. Dug deep into my skin with a beautiful rush, felt the glass grind against bone. Did it again on my other wrist and laid back, watching the red pulse out of me as I waited for whatever lay beyond this life. To see if God (if there was one—or two or three or four or a million?) cared enough about me to let me through the Pearly Gates, get a forever vacation from the hell I've already suffered on earth. Or maybe I'd get stuck with good old Lucifer, get poked with a pitchfork for eternity as punishment for all the crap I've done in my life.
And then it happened. As my sight was darkening at the edges and the pain was nothing but a buzz in my wrists, something touched me. Hands smelling of ambergris and the tang of latex fondled my face, touched my throat with feminine tenderness. Held my wrists with surprising strength.
A woman's voice, delicate as a dried flower, floated over me to somebody else. And with a new, sharp pitch in my wrists, I was out like a light.
A pinprick in my forearm followed by the gentle lulling of a van under me…a gentle woman's voice saying, "Damn fool, he better pull through, this one can't be lost." These were all that stood out to me in my fog of near-death. I was floating in black. I was emotionless. But everything hurt.