it was a selfish mess. a waste of a good future. he ly there on the bathroom floor, with puddles of red blood around his swollen pail purple wrists. he was lying on his stomach with his head turned to the right and his arms down to his sides. his eyes were closed tight and he had no expression. just a calm peace of wonder; why he cared so much. how could things be this bad. no one knows. he wore his lucky shirt and his favorite blue jeans with holes in them. his livestrong band lay a rest next to the bloody blade and a notebook next to that. in the notebook was several pages of letters with dried up tears on the pages. his handwriting was sloppy and fast, like most of these kinds of notes. letters to friends; words to family; writing of what he wished would have happened different. the lights were all on and the bathroom fan was the only bit of noise. the curtains were shut to the outside world. he did not have a girlfriend. he was not part of any special group of friends. he was friends with everyone that knew him. he was not fake. but that hurt him more than anything; and somehow got the best of him. the day he chose to die, he did not act any different. he was exactly how he had been for his whole life. which was anything but normal. he took his own life. no one will ever know why.