11:58...11:59...12:00.

The clock's red lighting glowed in the dark, forcefully reminding him of the day change. He stared blankly at the numbers, wishing they would revert backwards. He wished the time would go back to the day before. Or go forward to the day after. Anything that wasn't today.

His birthday.

No one ever remembered his birthday. His father when he was a child never remembered it. His so called "friends" never remembered it. His assistant, Pepper Potts, never remembered it. His teammates, the Avengers, never remembered it. Only he did.

And he wished he didn't.

His birthday was a dreaded day. He wished the day didn't exist.

He wished he didn't exist.

Standing up, he walked over to his personal bathroom that resided within his room. Flicking on the dull light, he opened the mirror- bound cabinet, searching for his tool of choice. Knocking a tube of tooth paste on the floor, he found the item he was looking for.

A sharp, black razor.

Closing the cabinet behind him, he walked back to his bed, sitting on top of the blankets. He turned the blade over and over again in his palm, wondering if what he was about to do was worth it. The blade was so tempting... It called to him, beckoned him with a sensual grace. He gave in.

He began to drag the razor across his wrist.

One, two, three.

Counting always helped him focus on the physical pain, rather than the emotional.

Four, five, six.

His wrist was beginning to blossom with pain, and a crimson liquid stained it.

Seven, eight, nine.

The blood began to drip down his wrist.

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

The blood was dripping onto his pants and blanket now, staining them with the rich, succulent color.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.

There was so much blood. His dull stainless steel blade was doused in his blood. He switched wrists.

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

His arms and hands were shaking violently now, the cuts were becoming more jagged and rough.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.

Cuts were overlapping; they were deep and would probably need stitches.

Thirty-six, thirty seven.

The razor blade clattered to the floor. His whole body began to shake, and he began to sob violently. He curled himself on his side, crying and letting blood cover himself. He began to sing to himself softly-

"Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday, dear Tony...
Happy birthday to me..."

The clock's red glare glowed the time out at him.

12:37

Pepper would find him in the morning, and clean him up. She would cry and wonder why and call the Avengers. He did this last year, too. He would live. Live another year.

But for now, he was only thirty-seven.

Happy birthday to me. My family forgets every year. Happy birthday to me.