Mick is ||||| ||||| years old. He tries very hard. Not at any one thing in particular, just at being alive. To Mick, being alive doesn't come that naturally.
Mick is beautiful. He was born with his heart out of his chest. It floats in a transience just outside his skin. It's been there so long, it's impossible to distinguish from his skin, he looks like any other boy, nobody knows about this. Mick doesn't even know, although he may someday.
Every word cuts into Mick's heart.
Today Mick went to school. A friend said something. Mick's heart is bleeding. He knows how to make sure nobody knows how much it stings. Everybody must be pretending they too, are not in pain.
Mick comes home, his body coated in wounds, leaking blood on the rarely swept entry-room. It blends in with the dust and racks of ill-fitting boots from previous winters. Mick sits on the couch. It's getting noticeable. A blood-soaked cushion. You can smell the metal, distinct from the country air. Mick's parents assume it's an emergency, and come to him.
"What's wrong?" is repeated dozens of times.
Mick doesn't know. "What's wrong?"
It's worse than it's ever been, "What's wrong?" Mick has a seemingly endless supply of blood to spill, but "What's wrong?" every leak hurts as much as the last. It's getting worse, "What's wrong?" and he doesn't know why.
"What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?""What's wrong?"
It's overwhelming. Mick does something bad. He doesn't know what else to do. Mick tells a lie. Mick tells them his teacher cut him up badly.
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Mick is alone. The bleeding has stopped, and he lies in bed with a small amount of peace. The loneliness is unbearable.
Mick finds the knife he keeps under his pillow, hidden from his parents. He needs to bleed.
Mick is beautiful. Mick is in pain.