Wednesday, 12 December 2012
06:34:34 PM (GMT)
Alone. Rejected. Forgotten. It wasn't often that Aiden Fairnington acknowledged
these feelings, but when he did, they really hit him. Ignored. Unappreciated.
He'd started, and it was now far beyond his ability to stop the streams of tears
cascading down his cheeks. His pillow was stained a darker shade of red as his tears
settled, and he had curled himself into as tight a ball as he could manage, which was
rather impressive, given his lanky proportions. The words, the names he had been
called span through his mind, presented in sickening shades of orange and yellow, and
try as he might, his vision would not clear of them.
His voice was quiet and broken, barely a ghost of his usual cocky, arrogant self, and
although he knew that the intended recipient of this plea could not hear, he repeated
it another four times. He reached out of the duvet and switched the light on, the
bulb flickering as much as his resolve as he dragged himself out of bed. Salem had
made him remove the knife from his bedside table, but that wasn't the only solution.
What would it matter, anyway. His conversation with the psychiatrist from a year ago
rattled around; "Are you obsessed with anything, Aiden?" "Like what?" "Well,
anything. Order, people, food, saftey... violence?" He had paused for a moment,
"No. Nothing." She, as expected, raised an eyebrow but didn't challenge it.
Another scribble was recorded in the scrappy notebook. He could see a scrap of paper
which he knew showed the drawing of the Man he saw. Another dog-eared page was a
letter he had sent to himself; a suicide note for his first attempt. To this day, he
didn't know why he wrote it, but Sarah clearly found it interesting.
Bullshit, in his opinion.
She cared as much as the rest of them.
The sleeping pills he'd been prescribed were pulled out of the drawer, his whole body
still racking with sobs. He tipped out a handful, patting the desk until he knocked
the cold tea from earlier, and rapidly swallowed the whole handful, taking another as
an afterthought, since he didn't like strange numbers, of which, six was definately
one. Seven was a much nicer number. Aiden swirled the small amount of tea around
the mug before pressing four migrane tablets from their packets. Again, he swallowed
them and fought an urge to wretch. He rubbed (unsuccessfully) at his eyes, and
crawled back into bed, pressing the lamp so that he was enveloped in darkness again.
He resumed the foetal position, as tightly as he could muster as the sleeping pills
took hold and closed his eyes.
Maybe this time.
A thin strand of frost-coloured sunlight streamed through the window. Only one
thought crossed Aiden's mind as he awoke, but it held so many emotions, most he
couldn't categorise into Happy, Sad, or Angry.
'It didn't work'