A Boy And His Death

I've always liked this character and he's part of a much larger story. This isn't even part of the story in question but was a fun thought exercise. A dry, July breeze lumbered through the cracked window. The maroon curtain knocked against the sill and let beams of sunlight stretch across his desk. He sat on the bed, arms limp and back curved toward the closed door. His sheets were damp and his thoughts were heavy. On the floor, a trail of blood led the way to him and to the box cutter near his feet. Splatters of drying red began to flake off his naked skin. He didn't time it like he used to. He had stopped doing that years ago. His thumb ached from where the box cutter had slipped from his wrist after the first cut and clattered to the hardwood floor. Slithering lines of blood began to harden. "Fuck". He muttered as the deepening line on his wrist began to burn. it's always after when he feels it, when the adrenaline wears after every intent, every violent thrust of the now jagged blade. His back cracked as he lowered his arm to pick up the cutter, to etch yet another failed attempt into his headboard of darkness. Because, it wasn't the attempt that failed; it was the staying dead part.