Disclaimer: Honestly, we've been through this before. I own nothing.
Warning: Character death, suicide. If you flame me for it, I'm only going to laugh.
Seventeen
The boy stared at the image of his naked body in the bathroom mirror, quietly counting his evils. They weren't the kind you could see, nor the kind you could do anything about. He was alone, as he always was, though he didn't necessarily consider this his fault.
He didn't have friends, no matter what the gods thought. He was a liability, a 'necessary evil' for the others to contend with. He wasn't sure how they could even stand being around him when all he wanted to do was curl up into a very small hole and never emerge again.
They fully believed that he liked the attention, fully believed that he craved it. It wasn't true. It was an escape of sorts, an escape that he had never thought himself able to complete. He knew he was weak, knew he could never compare to his teammates. And they had rejected him for it.
They spoke about him a lot. It seemed talking about his uselessness was one of their favourite pastimes. He wasn't worthy to be with them.
He had found escape once, making himself the center of attention to forget his faults. That worked, until he found that people avoided him, finding him annoying. Girls, boys, no one could stand him. But what they didn't know was that he couldn't stand himself.
There were seventeen years to his life, seventeen years filled with failures. It had begun with his birth.
He gripped the sides of the counter, wondering if it was a failure to take his own life. After all, did it not belong to him? No, not anymore. It belonged to his teammates and the gods. Taking his life would be stealing from them. He'd be a thief. Another failure.
He gave the mirror a crooked smile. Since when had he not failed? Since when had people not expected the worst from him? If he took his life, he'd be living up to their expectations.
It takes sixteen capsules of Advil to kill a grown man. He knew that from an article he had read in a magazine.
Yes, he did read the magazines. He didn't buy them purely to look at his own pictures. He wanted to understand the world he no longer felt himself a part of.
It only takes sixteen pills to kill a grown man.
He staggered from the bathroom, swaying slightly with drowsiness. In his room, he curled up under the covers, resting his head comfortably on his pillow.
Well, what would happen if you took seventeen?
Me