Blood started to drip off of Patrick's wrist and into the sink, he dig the blade deeper into his already scared porcelain skin. It didn't even hurt anymore, it was like coming home to an old friend. Deeper, cut deeper, you fucking deserve it. Patrick agreed with the voice and moved the tiny piece of metal across his skin with a quick motion, pressing a bit of pressure. Patrick watched the skin separate, the wound started to fill with blood then the blood started to bubble up and spill. Patrick groaned at the pain, he missed it, it was comforting. He looked at the lines he had cut, they were the same length apart and had the same amount of distance from each other. So far there were nine deep cuts, Patrick washed the blood off and pulled the blade across his arm again.

What if Pete finds out? Patrick asks himself while slicing another long cut into his forearm. You and Pete never have sex and he doesn't ever pay attention to you, he won't find out. He doesn't even care Patrick, nobody cares. He digs the blade back into his wrist, deeper than he had in years and it felt so, so good. He had been craving the sight of blood and the feeling of his skin splitting. There was blood in the sink and all over the counter, he was started to get lightheaded, like when he used to purge for 24 hours with only Green tea (boosts metabolism) to keep him alive.

He also hadn't eaten anything since last nights dinner, and that was only a few bites of the crappy salad Pete had thrown together. His stomach was grumbling, it hurt but he ignored it. Pain wasn't that hard to tolerate for Patrick, if you had tortured yourself for a years on end then failed over five suicide attempts you would get used to the pain too. He pulled his shirt and sweatpants off and climbed into the porcelain tub filled with steaming hot water, his boxers got soaked as he sat down but he didn't really care.

He took the blade covered in blood between his thumb and pointer finger and pulled it across his wrist. Blood started to flow into the once clear now light pink water, he rested his head on the edge of tub and let his arms into the water. His blood mixed with the water and he watches the water darken, light pink turning darker by the minute.

He looked around the room, everything was starting to blur worse than usual (he used to blame his shaky walking on his bad eyesight but it was really just him being dizzy all the time from his lack of energy and food.) Patricks eyelids flutter shut, he can feel his heartbeat and it's loud, steady but he is just concentrated on the rhythm.

Patrick forgets that he's bleeding out in a bathtub and lets his drowsiness take over, he passes out in a bathtub full of almost red water.

—

Pete knocks at the door for the ninth time, it had been two hours since Patrick said he was going to take a bath. Joe was standing behind him behind shifting nervously from one foot to another, his hands fidgeting like a nervous third grader. "Patrick, baby please come out. I'm getting real worried..." Pete knocks on the door again, yet no answer of sound comes from the inside. Joe rattles on the door, he was more worried than Pete which was saying something. Patrick himself was still passed out in the tub. "Fuck this" Pete mumbled and started to kick the door. There was a loud crash and the door fell off of it's hinges. "Patrick?" Pete gasped, his husband was laying in the tub and the water was dark red, he was paler than ever, almost white. Joe started to cry, full of loud cries as he and Pete ran to the tub and pulled Patrick out. Pete wrapped a towel around his husbands bleeding wrist and tied to tightly, Joe grabbed his phone and dialed 911. He was sobbing and blubbering about his best friend trying to commit suicide in a tub then messing up their home address twice. Pete held Patrick's wet and cold (so, so cold and lifeless) body to his chest and sobbed till the ambulance arrived.