He was gone. John couldn’t believe it. It has been a year since he left, but John could not forget. He had watched as Quinn jumped, jumped off a building after calling him, and only saying two words to him before he died. Those two words still haunted him in his sleep. John sat with a cup of tea, slowly burning off his hands, staring at the empty seat where Quinn used to sit.

“Why?” John whispered into the darkness. He sat as if waiting for a response, but there was only the constant ticking on the clock.

“Why?” John asked again, “Why did you do it? God, it’s all my fault…” He looked down into his mug. The tea sat and he contemplated as he stared at it, his own reflection stared back up. ‘Did he really look like that?’ he wondered. The reflection simply copied his moves. John kept staring, staring into the now dark brown eyes of his reflection, and noted how his hair seemed to only defy gravity on one side. The reflection’s eyes were so deep, and he could see sadness in them. The bags under his eyes stared up at him in the reflection, as did his scruff on his face. John looked away from the mug’s reflection, staring up.

“Damn…” He sighed to himself and checked his watch; 2:00am. He set his mug down and got up, and rubbed his eyes, knowing he wasn’t going to sleep. He plodded into the bathroom and opened up the drawers, searching. He found it, under the hand towels. John pulled it out and held it to the light. He stared, transfixed by how shiny it was. It looked as new as the day he got it, except it was used, and there were stains in a few places, but they too, only complemented the shine. John glanced into the mirror, a real mirror this time, not a mug. He almost jumped when he saw himself. His dirty blonde hair was everywhere, but the thing that really startled him was his face. The desperation and the… the… fear; was that the word? He saw how his secret seemed to compliment his skin somehow, its shine against his tan skin. His secret was, of course, a flip razor blade. The handle was carved with vines, and the blade itself was smooth, sleek, and deadly. John remembered how Quinn would always shave with it. Quinn had always stated proudly ‘that it gives a smoother cut’. John ran his forefinger down the sharp end and watched his red blood well up under its bite. It never hurt at first; it was too sharp to hurt. The worst part though, was after, when the itching began, the constant itchiness of the new cut. Gingerly, John set the blade down and examined his finger. There was a perfect cut down the middle and the blood that had welled up there was slowly running down the curvature of his finger.
“A smoother cut” John whispered, smiling to himself. He licked the blood off, watching a more blood appeared less than the first time, but still a decent size. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked so it would stop bleeding. John reached for the blade but quavered just above it. He stood there for a minute, his fingers outstretched, hovering over the carved handle. He let out a loud sigh.

“I can’t, I just… I can’t” He muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the bathroom. He stepped back and leaned against the walk in shower. The brick work was rough under his head. He closed his eyes. ‘Was this what it was like for Quinn; a rough sharp surface ramming into the back of his head, breaking his skull?’ He shuddered violently, as he remembered the look on Quinn’s face and all the blood. Oh god the blood. It was everywhere and it ran in small rivers through the cracks in the brickwork. His blood was almost black by the mere quantity. Quinn’s hair had been matted down with blood, his black hair glistening with red. His corpse was so broken, his kneecap was protruding and his foot twisted so horribly. Quinn had hit the ground hard, for mixed with the puddles of his blood was bits of muscle and what may have been brain.

“Oh God!” John cried, running over to the toilet, and vomiting. The memory made him sick. He stood there, breathing slowly, and straightened up. He pulled out his phone, and swallowed any sickness down. Hesitantly, he dialed Quinn’s old number, still praying that he would pick up. The usual message came on;

“I am sorry, but the number you have dialed is been disconnected. Please try again.”
John sighed, knowing not to have imagined. Not to have imagined that Quinn may be still alive. But what if—

“Goodbye” There was a click, and the phone hung up. Sighing, John went back to his contacts on his phone. He dialed Sara’s number, and waited for the voicemail.

“Hi this is Sara Creighton and I am unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name, number, or message after the beep and I will try to get back to you, thanks!” The message machine beeped after a brief pause. He wasn’t fully sure what to say, but he would just go with whatever came to him.

“Hi Sara, I know it is late, but you always said that I should call you if I am feeling… down. I just had to call… to say… to say goodbye. It has been, as you know, a year since Quinn… left. I loved him like a brother, and it hurts too much without him. I have tried to be strong for a year, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid that I am too weak. So, to say the same words he said to me before he left…” John gulped “I’m sorry…” He hung up the phone and went over to the counter. He picked up the blade fast, before he could hesitate. Trembling, he raised it high in the air, and slit his left wrist. He stumbled at the pain. Oh god the pain! He stumbled back into the shower, leaving blood on the floor, glass, and brickwork. He couldn’t take it; it has to be over with soon! Slowly he switched the razor into his left hand. The blade was now covered in blood. ‘God, was that his blood?’ he quickly thought as he slit his other wrist. He finally let out a scream of pain and fell onto the floor of the shower. He lay as his blood drained out of his body, and down into the shower drain. His final thoughts were ‘I am only thirty-two… too young… I’m sorry… I will see you soon Qui—‘