There's No Name to a Tragedy

That Christmas, he bled himself dry. They say they'll never know why. But he told them. He did them better, he showed them. But they pushed him aside, one of their own. They put him at the end of the list. That damn list. He burned it before he turned to ashes himself. There was no one for him. School hated him. Friends abandoned him. Betrayed him. His moments were inexplicable. He couldn't help the way he was born. It wasn't voluntary. Who the hell would WANT to move like THAT? Randomly. So while they were singing false carols and wishing lies to each other, he locked himself in the bathroom. He wasn't alone, his trusty razorblade was by his side. The only thing that never lied to him. Never trusted him. It just did what he wanted it to do. No questions asked. Just action. While they were giving out presents, he was giving up his blood to the drain in the bathtub. He had enough time to stare out the tiny square window. It was a half moon that night. He smirked. That other half, the light, he wondered what it would have been light. If he wasn't born with this, this, this curse. His life had been out of his hands, but now he could hold it firm and choke it to death with his own bloody hands.