Words Mean Nothing.

Frank stumbled through the bathroom door into the soggy bathroom. Grey tiles lined the floor meeting at the edges with white and grey walls. The gloom in the room was unbearable, yet, Frankie was comforted by it.

Frank leaned against the wall, sliding down onto the floor with a thud. Sitting there he looked so helpless, he looked genuinely like a person that had nothing to live for anymore. Searching his pockets Frank searched for the cold, hard, metal and pulled it out in seconds.

Unsheathing the knife, he stared at the metal reflecting half his tear stained face back at him. He ran his fingers across the edge of the knife too mesmerized to realize that the razor-sharp blade had sliced his finger open and the blod was trickling down the metallic surface.

Once slice across his throat, one across each of his wrists, one deep into the artery of his thigh. The ways out were infinite.

Frank settled the knife onto his forearm making a small incision in his already rolled up sleeved arm. It stung. You could see it in his eyes, but, he wasn't about to stop. The blood trickled down into tiny droplet like splatters on the tiled floor.

He swallowed hard, the tears pouring down his face in buckets. Resting the knife on his left wrist and clenching it, he was ready to slam the knife deep into his wrist when the door swung open.

In the doorway stood a terrified and confused brown haired boy.

Oh, boy was he in deep shit.