A/N: This was written for the Caesar's Palace "Life is a Huge Song" Challenge (Heartbreak/Indie Music Prompt) and is based on Dalton Rapattoni's song, "Stop." (youtube dot com/watch?v=w1BrldHj11g)

Warning: This story contains dark themes of self-injury and suicide.

My therapist is an idiot. She thinks I cut myself because I feel guilt over all the horrible things I've done in my short life, but she's wrong. She also thinks I'm too smart for my own good… well, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

I light another cigarette and gaze down at the world below. I lean against the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing tight as the pavement taunts me. What are you going to do?

Off to my right, the Olympic stadium is shining brightly as fireworks fly into the night sky to celebrate the opening ceremonies. I blow smoke rings and laugh at myself. Even now, after all the pain I've caused you, you'd still tell me that smoking is bad for me as if you actually care. But how could you? Just stop it already.

I take the photo out of my pocket and glare at you, going as far as to pull down my lower lid and stick my tongue out at you. "Baka," I say sadly, but I'm not sure who I'm talking about this time. Is it you? Or is it me? I need to stop asking questions I can't answer.

I take out my phone and check the display, but you still haven't called back. The call log is empty and in the back of my mind, I hear my therapist ask "Whose fault is that?"

It's mine, it's always been my fault. I can own up to that now, like the scars on my hands that I laid there with a razor so that I could never play basketball again. I didn't know why I did it then, but I do now. It was the only way to stop me from hurting you, again.

The wind drifts burst of fireworks lazily my way, coloring the sky like the Generation of Miracles. You'll be there along with many of them these next two week, or against them, but I won't be there. Even though you can't play, you've still made a place for yourself in their midst. Doesn't it hurt to watch them do what you can't anymore? I just want this to stop before I'm surrounded by second thoughts.

For the sake of all the pain I've caused, I'll wait until the end of this cigarette to give you a chance to talk me out of it. After that… it will all stop. I chuckle, surprising myself at the dark sound. My therapist hates that I always have a plan with another in the queue behind that should the first fail. She wants me to be more spontaneous; she will be disappointed when they go through my things and find out I had this all planned out, too.

I'm not even sure when I started crying, but I pretend these tears are just raindrops falling out of the clear night sky. I'm good at lying to myself, I've done it for too long. My crippled hand closes around our photo, the one we took on the day you forgave me, crumpling it as the tears fall. You promised you'd be there for me, well you'll be here when I meet the pavement head on and they'll wonder why I have a picture of you. I wish I knew why; it'll be one of those mysteries I'll take to my grave.

Once I'm gone, you'll all talk of the moments that led me here, and all of my mistakes. Will you remember the lies we told to each other? Like when you said, "I forgive you" to get me to stop hurting myself and I laughed in your face.

"Stop, please stop." You implore me only to assuage your own guilt. It's not fair. Why should your burden be lighter after you rejected me? It feels right, even now I am pushing away your attempts to be my friend, calling you names, and lashing out at you still. It was all on purpose, every ugly word, every taunt. I planned it all out, just like tonight, but now it can finally stop.

In your misguided ways, I guess you are right. The best we could have reached was an unsteady truce, leaving you bruised and bloodied and me seeping deeper into madness. It still irks me that you wouldn't give up on someone else's girl – another man's wife nonetheless – but we have that doggedness in common. We always want the one we can't have, but I've been in love with you longer! Since the first time we played against each other in middle school, you have been my obsession. You and your heteronormative bullshit… it's no wonder I took pleasure in hurting you.

I should text you my therapist's number. She isn't as stupid as I make her out to be. Maybe she can help you, after all, you're not as broken. Nah, that would be out of character for me. You'll have to find your own help, once I'm gone.

All that's left now is the last puff. I inhale and toss the butt aside as I walk up to the edge. I kiss the photograph goodbye before I let it flutter from my fingers. "I'll race you down."

I vault the railing, standing at the very edge and step forward just as I hear the door behind me open. I fall, and as I turn, I see you with your large hands grasping for me like I am one of the many basketballs you've rebounded so splendidly all these years. My hand trails up – it's not like I'm asking for help – and your fingertips brush mine a second too late.

I have just enough time to watch you cry out my name, panic and tears in your brown eyes, and that's enough to make the pain stop.