I don't own Big Time Rush it belongs to Nickelodeon. Blah Blah Blah

Carlos locked himself in the bathroom. Thoughts whizzing in his head, engulfing all his happy thoughts. The thoughts casted darkness upon him, it devoured his soul bit by bit. He was become a hallow shell. It seems he was always one. His life wasn't perfect no matter how happy he seemed. Carlos can recall every anguishing memory.

He stumbled through the door after a day of drinking as every other day, Carlos was in his room trying to block out his calls. "Carlos come here you little brat" Carlos had locked his door like every night to stop his drunken Father. The knob rattled. Carlos shivered; he hadn't fully recovered from the last beating. He banged on the door. Carlos prayed for him to give up and go to sleep, but his prays feel on deaf ears. Finally he broke the door. "Why, you little fuck you locked the door." The five year old Carlos felt the blows rain down onto him, with a drunken rage. Luckily he fell into unconsciousness before the kicks and stomps started.

Carlos was always blamed for his mother's death. His mom died a week after he was born due to complications. His father blamed him. Nights were filled with Carlos wishing he wasn't born. His father developed an alcohol addiction and severe depression. One day he just killed himself.

One day was in the living room alone watching TV because He came home around 10. He came in the door. His eyes weren't bloodshot. And he didn't carry the overbearing stench of alcohol. He held a brown paper bag. Carlos eyed him unmoving fearing another beating. He removed a black pistol from the brown bag. Carlos thought it was the end; he was finally going to kill him. He was going to free him of this life. Oh how Carlos awaited this day. He pointed the gun to his throat and pulled the trigger. No, no. That was his ticket no, no. Carlos saw the blood and brain spattered on the walls. He sank to the floor holding his knees to his chest. His heart ached more than ever.

Carlos eventually called the police. He was sent to live with his Grandmother in Minnesota. He was always bullied and teasing there, when no one was watching. He finally grained three friends in third grade, Logan Kendall, and James. Still this didn't stop the bullying it still continued, probably worsening. But the better were his acting skills. He pretended to be a happy, bubbly corn dog loving weirdo. Carlos was content in pretending to be happy and moment worth of the feeling of belonging. He finally thought he got a break when they became Big Time Rush, was he wrong. He just relieved how irrelevant he was. He was just there in the band. A member who wasn't the leader, or the handsome one, or the smart one, he was just the Latino. The torment hadn't stop but become more hurtful.

"You're perfect, on paper!"

"You, have no talent."

"You can't do anything right!"

"Oh. Yeah, that's the Latino guy, right?"

"Stop being an idiot."

"N.O!"

"No, like I would go out with you."

"Carlos!"

Carlos locked himself in the bathroom and rolled up his sleeve. Scars littered his arm, some small and shallow other long and deep. Some spelt words others with dates. He unwrapped a razor from it wrapper; he hid in a medicine bottle. He started cutting repeatedly slashing over and over again. The crimson liquid oozed out the fresh cuts. He sighed relived the tingling sensation spread throughout his body. He wanted more he was so tempted to cut deeper but he resists he will save that delight for later. He was wrapping gauze around his arm when he recalled that he didn't close the door. He was alone but anyone could have come in when he was cutting, he gets lost in his own world. He looked to the door to see someone gasping right back at him it was…