Diary of Self-Destruction part 2

Stumbling out of bed, he shuffles across the carpet until he feels the cold linoleum under his feet. Glancing up at the mirror, he hears something, a voice.

"Well well well,"

Double checking the face looking back at him, he makes sure.

His lips aren't moving.

"well don't you look like shit today, again."

Turning away he pushes aside the clear plastic shower curtain and reaches for the faucet handle.

"Just look at yourself, those scars on your wrist, bags under your eyes. Long night huh?"

Lowering his eyes, he sees the inside of his wrist, covered with red lines. Dark clotted drops of blood still clinging to some of them.

"Your so pathetic with your little episodes. Cutting yourself until you bleed as much as you cry. You cry like you did when you were a child."

He remembered how he hated her voice, how he cowered away, looking up, with salty eyes at the one who gave birth. Gave birth to a failure. He was carried in her womb, fed, and nurtured by her. But she now screamed in his ears.

Perhaps she didn't know what she was doing. Maybe she hated him. Maybe she never wanted him. He didn't know.

"She wanted you to succeed in life."

But how does yelling help anybody succeed in anything? Is it worth it to achieve greatness and be empty inside?

Over time, he developed a hatred for people, family, and himself. His whole life revolved around hate and self-loathing, all those years were kept inside.

They never knew. She never knew.

They will never know now.

He opens the medicine cabinet. Reaches for a bottle of pills. The bottle is opened. Pill taken. Then another. More and more. He is choking them down. Grasps for another bottle, pops the lid. Groping for another, another. Taking bottles out, pushing pills in. Choking, swallowing, gasping. More bottles, more pills, anything. More more more.

Then, he stops. Bottles strewn across the counter, in the sink, on the floor. Pills, tablets and capsules a mess around him.

The room starts spinning. His eyes are wide open, darting back and forth. He's cold. Shivering, shaking, with a shudder he falls to his knees. He's hot, burning, sweating. His heart is pounding against his chest, it hurts. Blood rushing through his veins. Pushing pounding rushing. Feels like he's going to burst. Closing his eyes. Slumps to the floor. Face pressed against the bathroom floor, to be found days later by the landlord or someone, still in his boxers under the yellow-orange glow of the bathroom lights.