I watched him die.

**Another not pleasant story brought on by an honesty I’d rather suppress. In the grand scheme of things the embarrassment i get by posting these stories pales in significance to the shame i would bear if i did what i think i would  if these stories remained inside me. I hope the message comes across without being preachy. I love my life now, I’ve fought to a place where i can call myself ‘proud’. But what if i hadnt?**

 

 

All he had left was blood.

 

He had hacked, sawed, cut and ripped his way to all he had ever wanted to see.

 

All I could do was wait for the inevitable and that had made me so fraught I couldn’t do it anymore.

 

I saw him around. From time to time.

 

I knew that before the knives he had marked himself with his nails. Across his face and legs he had marked so deep that he had to miss days of school before the lines had disappeared. He hadn’t known the extent of elf harm available. Even then he had rested only on himself, not the world around him.

 

I wished he had retained that sense of independence. Now, now I couldn’t even look at him.

 

His arms, his legs and even his neck had become discoloured with the scars of his hared.    HIS NECK! No one could understand that level of self mutilation. That was an internal guillotine shown in the light.

 

But what was I supposed to do?

 

I had found him, on the first night, dripping with blood and tears.

 

What have I done? Was all he could say before he passed out.

 

I couldn’t find anything for him he hadn’t dug for on his own. I was powerless and he knew it. In a way I think that’s what made him so dependent on me.

 

He knew he was better than me and he liked the feeling.

 

But I wasn’t the one digging for ‘dirty blood’, I thought in my darkest moments.

 

I couldn’t think that way permanently. My heart still panged thinking of what he was going through.

 

I couldn’t understand it but I knew where it was leading him. Everyone – apart from him – could see where this was leading.

 

He’d be dead by September and only he could stop it.

 

Of course no one directly blamed him. It was ‘HER’ fault, of course. She had smashed and cracked, broken and shattered everything he was and could be, beyond any recognition.

 

A small part of me still whispered in dissent.

 

He could change this if he chose too.

 

It was the drinking that had pushed me away in the end. It was constant and it was brutal.

 

One bottle, two bottle, three bottle more. That’s one bottle, two bottle three bottle, four.

 

It was all that made him happy and who was I to tell him no?

 

I should have loved him enough to tell him no.

 

He’ll be gone by September. I know it. But I’m too far gone to stop it. I spent years picking up her pieces and now I don’t think there is anything anyone can do. If he couldn’t save himself then no one else can.

 

He was the most capable and resilient person I had and will ever know. He’s chosen to die. Would it be murder? He had chosen this and i had let it happen but… 

 

Who am I to stop him?

 

 

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