Alone

Sitting in my room, I glanced at the wall, my anime poster staring blankly back at me.  The nightly fighting had starting and I groaned, knowing it would be at least two hours before they stopped.  Reaching for my pencil, my hand fell upon my pencil sharpener, the tiny blade glinting at me.  I looked away, trying to think about it.  Sighing, I searched my desk for my knife and carefully twisted the small screwdriver that held the blade in place.  As it fell onto my lap, the yelling turned into throwing useless junk at each other from across the room.1

Making the first cut, little crimson drops followed, trickling down my arm.  I smiled, admiring my own artwork.  The feeling flowed through me like ecstasy and I drew in the high as I painted another portrait next to the first.  After a while, I switched from one arm to the next, not really caring about the tiny drops of blood that fell from the shallower cuts.  Next on my list of pictures to paint was the deep river of my red life, at least that's what I would have named it.2

The cuts laced my arm as I threw the bloody blade on the floor.  Tears fell to mix with the small pool around my feet. Brown hair in my face, I took my blue glasses off and set them on the desk next to me. I heard the arguing in the next room through my thin wall and cringed when I heard my name thrown in. Great, just what I needed, another beating because of who knows what reason.
 Walking towards the door, I gently opened it and walked silently into the hallway. The bathroom door was open and I rushed inside, grabbing a towel and the stain remover. Opening the medicine cabinet, I saw the many bottles of prescriptions, sitting there for my parents.
I ran my finger through the list of pills, finding a reasonable dose and the right amount of pills. Just to be sure, I grabbed a few more bottles and my razor from the shower. Not thinking clearly, I rummaged under the sink for some more cleaning supplies, not finding any. Damn, they must be in the kitchen, where my parents were.
 The front door slammed, followed by another slamming. Taking the cue, I hurriedly went to kitchen and searched the cupboard. Still not finding what I needed, I went to the fridge. A few beers, a bottle of vodka and more prescriptions were in the back, behind the mustard and milk.  I grabbed a few things and returned to my room.3

I set the few things on my desk, lining them up in order from smallest to biggest, the bottle of vodka last on my list to drink.  Opening the pill bottles, I dumped them out on the desk and arranged them in groups of two.  I continued this until all the pills were in front of me.  Starting at the beginning, I swallowed them, chasing them with beer.  The beer tasted foul and I ran to the kitchen to grab a glass of milk.  Dumping the beer down the sink, I hurried back to my room and started over again.  4

Finishing all the pills, I felt lightheaded and sick.  The towel I'd gotten earlier sat on my bed, long forgotten.  I grabbed the bottle of vodka and laid on my bed, taking the first drink that would soon end my life.  I wondered if my parents would even care and how they would react.  Struggling to sit up, I reached for a pen and paper.  The words I scribbled on the page looked like nothing but gibberish and with that thought, I took another drink.  5

A knock came from the door and I stood to open it, falling down in the process.  Grunting, I swallowed half the bottle and spilling more on the floor.  Tears ran from me and chased after my blood, making a small puddle by the door.  The knock on the door was more urgent this time but I no longer cared.  I closed my eyes, hoping to never open them again.  A shout from the other side of the door was the last thing I remembered as I took my last breath.  6