"Shall I do it, or shall I not? You told me not to, but I forgot. Well, since it's over, and there's nothing to do, I'll go to hell and wait for you."

He sat there, replaying his poem in his mind, trying to decide if it was worth it. Nothing was right, and he'd gotten to the point where there was no helping it. He laughed, knowing no one could hear the cry underneath. A cry for love and understanding that no one would give him.

He cried aloud. He screamed bloody murder, then he laughed. No one was home, no one could hear. Why would they want to hear? With his father dead and his mom a drunk that tried to beat him every night after staggering home from the bar, life wasn't worth sh*t.

Flashbacks of when things were good flooded his mind like a monsoon as he lay there bleeding on the floor, knife still in hand.

It's over now. I just have to wait. The pain ran through his body. He was dying here on the bathroom floor and no one cared. Not even him.

"Should I have done it, or should I have not? You told me not to, but I forgot. Well, since it's over and my life's through, I'll go to hell, and wait for you."

"He he he," he said to himself, as the light faded into black.

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Well, that was a little weird. I don't usually write like that. And I don't think it was my best either. Comment, please.