Razor

  All I did was love, give, and hope and pray. But when I finally got up the courage to ask her out...
  She completely crushed me.
  I could've accepted rejection. I could've accepted some level of harshness, even if we had been great friends. But this... Was a complete case of overkill, a blatant disregard for my emotions. It was like she had become someone else entirely, someone who wanted only for the destruction of my soul.
  For a while, I thought she had succeeded. Somewhere deep down, I still do. Yet, there's a new part of me, a part which still holds on to a thin strand of hope. A part that says I'll be alright.
  I sit now, alone in my room, hoping and praying for something, anything to help me.
  I see my shaving razor, lying on my desk. The blade itself has somehow been pulled out. Curious. I stand to put it away, but as I touch it, darker thoughts begin to fill my mind...
  I carry the razor into the bathroom. My parents are out tonight, and will be until tomorrow afternoon. That strand of hope inside tells me not to, it says it's not worth it. I don't have to do this.
  Filling the bathtub with hot water, I lay inside, razor in one hand. A tear rolls down my face as I dig and tear, blood spraying for an instant. I cry out in pain, clutching my bleeding wrist. I breathe heavily, grit my teeth, and hold the razor in my other, shaking hand. I have to push through. With great effort, I push the blade against my other wrist, and dig through. Sobbing, I drop the razor, doing my best to relax my body, wrists burning.

  I watch the child bleed out, my plans now set in motion. I stare silently, observing with slight curiosity.

  Oh, God, why did I reject him the way I did?! I know he... He killed himself because of me. Oh, it's all my fault! I should have said yes. He was cute, funny, always kind to me, and in return... I killed him!
  In between my sobs and wails, I look up, and notice something out of place; the razor I use to shave is lying on my bed. Stranger still, the blade has been pulled out...

  Was I not a good mother? Why did my son do this to himself? My ONLY son, now... Dead.
  Here I lay, crying into my pillow. My husband is drinking his sorrows away at a bar, and I have no one here to help me cope. Hearing a small thud, I raise my reddened face, curious.
  The noise came from the bathroom, I suddenly realize. Entering, I notice my razor on the floor. It had to have fallen. Getting closer, I see the blade on its own, seemingly calling to me...

  My wife and son. Dead. No hope.
  I lay in my bathtub, soaking in my daily bath. A clatter echoes nearby. Opening my tear-drenched eyes, I see my razor, the blade knocked close to me...

  "Four deaths, not bad." I say to myself, standing over the father's body. I commemorate myself on a new record, and for keeping a family together. Slowly, my boney hand graces across the grown man's face, and my blank eyes stare deeply into his cold, lifeless ones.